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THE FLOWER OF DOOM 

AND 

Y 

OTHER STORIES 


By M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 

AUTHOR OF <f KITTY” “PEARLA” ^disarmed” etc., etc. 


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THE FLOWER OF DOOM; 

Ok, THE CONSPIRATOR. 

& fitorg of ®xr-img. 


Chapter I. 

THE ATELIER. 

Why did the great Shakespeare put joyous thoughts into 
Romeo’s breast on the eve of doom? Do ecstatic moods in- 
deed visit mortals when nearing, unawares, the verge of dread 
catastrophe ? 

if disaster sends a herald in disguise, doth happier fortune 
ti^ * us after the same fashion ? Are such inner promptings 
hearkened to or distrusted ever ? 

These questions must occur to most of us at some time or 
other, since certain it is that dark presageraent does not always 
betoken evil hap, nor will unwonted exuberance of spirits be 
surely followed by substantial joy. We feel more assurance 
about the connection between an unusual frame of mind and 
rare events. The common day is not begun with trumpetlike 
wakenings to destiny — thoughts like wings, to lift above gross- 
er air. 

“ I am far from being an unhappy woman,” mused Bernarda 
Burke, as she prepared for her busy day. “ If Fortune has no 
more golden gifts in store, she has surely no bad, either. Away, 
then, ye siren voices — ye stern forebodings ! To work — to work ! 
Therein lies sure healing for the bruised heart — redemption for 
all l” 


2 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


The vast city might be searched from one end to the other 
for a brighter, more poetic, spectacle than Bernarda’ s atelier 
presented an hour later. As if by magic, the bare, cold, London 
room was transformed into a garden within garden, parterre 
within parterre. The blonde, rosy-cheeked maidens now seated 
in rows before their embroidery frames, and models of fresh 
flowers of richest hue, seemed to mock the place and season, 
turning town October into June. The air was fragrant with 
scents, while bright and virginal as these living roses and lilies, 
and the ideal posies in silk and filoselle, were the golden braids, 
coral lips, and blue eyes of these English girls. 

The mistress sat at the upper end of the lofty workroom, on 
an estrade raised above the rows of fair heads, flowers, and em- 
broidery-frames, thus commanding the whole animated scene. 
But not by position only. Look, carriage, even dress, inspired 
authority. While her apprentices, whose ages varied from fif- 
teen to twenty, wore colors such as the young love and choose by 
happy instinct, Bernarda was soberly, although beautifully, 
dressed in black, relieved by a magnificent gold-and-brosvn pansy . 
worn on her breast just above the region of the heart. 

The girls often wondered at their mistress’s devotion to this 
especial flower. She never wore any other, and generally con- 
trived to obtain splendid specimens that brightened her dress 
as a jewel. She was a tall, handsome woman, about thirty-two, 
with the dark hair, dark-blue eyes y and long silken lashes of a 
race famous for its beauty ; also with a certain piquancy of con -1 
tour and expression which made her very fascinating, especially 
to the blonde. Hardly one of the fair, rosy, light-haired Saxons 
but envied their teacher’s raven hair, pearly skin, and dark eye- 
brows. Yet Bernarda could have no longer seemed young in 
their eyes. There must, then, have been some hidden charm 
of manner, some influence due to character, as well as looks, 
that subdued these careless young things, and made her task 
of keeping order, and getting through a proper amount of work, 
easy. 

As Bernarda’s stately figure moved backwards and forwards 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


3 


amid these avenues of bright girls, silken blossoms, and their 
living prototypes, there was no diminution of the girlish chat- 
ter and laughter, well held in check. The empty-headed idler 
was expelled ; but, so long as her pupils were sedulous, the mis- 
tress encouraged them to talk to each other in undertone. The 
perpetual chirping, as of so many birds, was a relief, and ena- 
bled her to think. 

One or two rules, of course, had to be rigidly enforced. Ber- 
narda’s handsome brows knit darkly if any new-comer forgot 
the observance of these, and ventured on a suggestion regard- 
ing the daily task, or, what the teacher resented much more, 
any personal remark directed to herself. On this especial morn- 
ing, however, the entire school sinned in company, and had to 
be forgiven. As Bernarda sat alone on her raised platform 
above the rest, the sun, that had hitherto been obscured all the 
morning, suddenly disentangled itself from clouds — not suffi- 
ciently so as to flood the whole room, but just enough to envel- 
op the one black-robed figure and the white lilies she was bus- 
ied upon in warm, golden light. The effect was strange and 
beautiful, and no wonder the young embroiderers seized upon 
it as an opportunity for unburdening themselves. For a mo- 
ment every needle rested. Then one sentimentalist, more vent- 
uresome than the rest, cried out, 

“ Please forgive us! We must look at you while you sit 
like a saint in your aureole.” 

Bernarda smiled impatiently, and continued her own work, 
as if determined for once to be indulgent. Truth to tell, she 
was herself conscious of a desire to break through routine, to 
I burst this freezing silence. 

Calm and dignified although she found her present mode of 
| life, congenial as it was to one enamoured of natural beauty, 
j there were yet moments when she longed to close her atelier 
and begin life anew. 

The incident of the golden ray, now blinding her, and wrap- 
ping her round as a 'vesture, was a vexation, since it made her 
realize how much she had in common with these careless, rest- 


4 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


less girls. Was she not also ready to catch at any excuse for 
wearying of duty, letting thought stray beyond the limit of 
actuality? Yes, she acknowledged that it was so. Life must 
have more to give than a daily portion of restful toil. 

In a moment the sunlight cloud was gone, and another ex- 
clamation went the round of the room. On the track of that 
warm effulgence now came an almost phenomenal gloom, which, 
like the glory, fastened upon Bernarda where she sat, hemming 
her round about with subtile cloud as she had before been en- 
throned in dazzling brightness. 

“We cannot see you. Speak to us !” cried the girl who had 
before been spokeswoman of the rest. “ Oh, Miss Burke, good 
and evil luck will sure visit you to-day.” 

“ Foolish children ! I will then hand over the good luck 
to you !” Bernarda replied, with one of her quietly sarcastic 
smiles. “Go home, all of you, and make what holiday you 
may in the fog.” 

The place rang with a merry cheer, and in a few minutes 
the embroidery-frames were covered up, the baskets, piled with 
gorgeous silks and flosses, put away, the flowers carried off to 
the conservatory ; Bernarda found herself alone in the bare, . 
silent, unpictorial room ; no blotch of color left but that brilliant 
flower of hers, and, like a gem, a butterfly, a humming-bird, it now 
pierced the leaden London atmosphere, shining amid the gloom. 

She glanced down at her heart’s-ease as she now passed out 
of the deserted atelier, and readjusted it tenderly. This fairy 
thing was the only companion of her solitude, ever fresh and 
perpetually beauteous, renewed day by day as if by magic. 
Was it not like some undisclosed memories that accompany 
us wherever we go, perchance saddening, but yet beautifying, 
the common ways of life ? 

And once again she checked the disturbing thoughts that 
had come unbidden a few hours before. 

“ What have I to do any more with joys or terrors, prognos- 
tics of evil or blissful harbingers ? To work, to work ! There- 
in lies healing for the bruised heart, redemption for all !” 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


5 


Chapter TI. 

THE CONSPIRATOR. 

The gloaming had come, a time Bernarda devoted on fine 
days to such business as lay out of doors. To-day, however, 
the heavy cloak of fog that enveloped the streets kept her in- 
doors. It was a pleasant place to walk and think in, this airy, 
spacious workroom, dimly lighted from above, and Bernarda’s 
calling gave her much to think about. To-day, as she walked 
up and down the silent atelier, she was contriving a set of arras 
destined to carry the fame of her little school across the wide 
Atlantic. She soon became so absorbed in the pleasing task 
that she did not hear a gentle tap at the door. Then her young 
maid-servant intruded, with a card in her hand, saying that the 
bearer awaited an interview. 

“ Light the lamp in my sitting-room. I will follow at once,” 
Bernarda said, carelessly. She was subject to interruptions at 
this hour, and cards were matters of daily occurrence also. Rich 
people would call, to order or inspect embroidery, modest par- 
ents to apprentice their children, young girls in search of em- 
ployment, unknown artists to proffer designs. No day without 
its visitants. 

Still dwelling on her arras, and without looking at the card, 
she went down-stairs to the little parlor set aside for her own 
exclusive use. What a contrast it presented to the spacious, 
chilly workroom she had just quitted ! All here was warm, 
rich, pictorial. And amid these belongings, which seemed part 
of herself — the little piano, handsel of her toil, the books, pict- 
ures, and works of art bought with her earnings — she dared to 
be herself. The black, abbess-like gown, with its plain folds, 
was discarded as soon as her day’s work had come to an end, 


6 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


and her pansy now rested on a background as brilliant as it- 
self. 

A fire burned brightly in the clean porcelain stove, and the 
lamp shed abundant light as she entered the room where her 
visitor waited alone. He stood conspicuous on the hearthiug, 
with his bared head turned towards the door. 

Quick as lightning all things became clear to her — those un- 
defined misgivings, those promptings of hope, the golden cloud, 
the shadow unutterable ! 

“ Edgeworth !” she cried, and that was all. 

She was a very proud woman, and accustomed to exercise 
self-control. When, without a word more, he bent forward 
and kissed her on the brow, she still remained calm and col- 
lected, though frozen into haughty silence. 

The man’s composure also seemed for a moment to desert him. 

44 You had my card? I did not intend to startle you, he 
said, apologetically. 

She dropped into a chair, and the unheeded card fell from 
her passive hand. He stooped down, picked it up, and coolly 
replaced it in his pocketbook. Then, depositing hat and stick 
on the table, by a matter-of-fact speech he broke the ice. 

“ Can we talk undisturbed for an hour?” he asked. “I 
have something to say to you.” 

“ Certainly,” Bernarda made reply, almost carelessly, as she 
handed him a chair. “ Pray be easy,” she added, as she saw 
him glance at the door ; “ the only creature in the house is my 
little maid. You can hear her singing in her kitchen down- 
stairs. If any one should call the door-bell will give due warn- 
ing, and I have but to deny admittance.” 

He did not look entirely reassured. 

“ You must still remember our mother- tongue,” he said. 
“ Suppose — ” 

She broke in impatiently, even scornfully, 

“ No need to use outlandish jargon within these incurious 
walls. We are perfectly secure from eavesdroppers, I assure 
you.” 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


r 


The first part of her speech evidently disconcerted him, and 
before opening his lips again he perused her steadily. For a 
brief spell they sat looking at each other. 

He was, like herself, strikingly handsome, and the thought 
must have occurred to others, if it had never struck themselves, 
how strong the likeness between the pair. It was a semblance 
due to race rather than kinship. Hid, like hers, those temples 
of his by raven curls ; shaded the dark-blue eyes, also, with long 
silken lashes ; his the self-same rich, tawny skin, fine features, 
and kindling, yet disdainful, smile. There was, however, a dif- 
ference no less marked. While Bernarda, although perfectly 
dignified and self-possessed, was not without a certain proud 
timidity and almost girlish shyness — due, perhaps, to her soli- 
tary life — one saw at a glance that he was something more 
than a mere man of the world. Speech, demeanor, nay, his 
very dress, indicated the cosmopolitan, and, if not the courtier, 
at least one familiar with all conditions of society, perhaps the 
humblest, certainly not the least elevated. 

Such things betray themselves in a man’s most insignificant 
action, also in that easy self-adaptation, versatility, amiableness, 
roughly summed up under the head of good manners, but 
which really mean much more than outward politeness. An 
adequate share in the world’s graver concerns, the give and 
take required in the management of public business or the lead- 
ership of masses, the necessity men of action are under of keep- 
ing their impulses well under control, naturally give them an 
advantage over those who move in small, circumscribed spheres. 

Bernarda realized all this in a moment, and the conviction 
helped to make her self-reliant. He would not add to her em- 
barrassment. Whatever he had to say would be said kindly, 
delicately, and with due regard for her feelings. He began 
with a question, smilingly put. 

“ Why did you use that expression just now ?” he asked. 
‘ 4 Outlandish jargon !’ Is it thus you speak of the tongue of 
your fathers ? Have you, then, abjured your country ?” 

u Oh,” she cried, looking ready to burst into tears, “ our un- 


8 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


happy country ! must we talk of our country ? Yet, of course, 
I know all. Your rdle is no secret.” 

“ Why should it be a secret ?” he said ; then looked at her 
as if to read her inmost thoughts. He added, in a voice that 
changed to gentle insinuation, “ First, we have to talk of our- 
selves. You are well and prosperous, I see” — and he glanced 
round the warm-tinted, elegant little room approvingly — “ but 
hardly satisfied with such a lot, I feel sure — hardly happy ?” 

Bernarda’s frank, impetuous nature rose up in rebellion 
against the irony of this speech — an irony that was not in- 
tended, she felt sure of that, but that galled nevertheless. 
Memories fresh and sweet as the flower she wore on her breast 
lived once more. The youthfulness and fervid hope of a van- 
ished yestreen came back. One day of life, its best and bright- 
est, seemed to revive. 

“ Why have you come after all these years ?” she cried, pas- 
sionately. “ What can it matter to you whether I am happy or 
no ? Speak out. Make known your errand, then go away, and 
let me be.” 

Her distress evidently troubled him, and, rising a second 
time, he kissed her on the forehead. That kiss, so respect- 
fully, dispassionately, accorded, yet evidently intended both as 
a sign of reconcilement and apology, did not comfort, but at 
least tended to calm her. It served, moreover, to bring with 
sudden force the difference between his condition of mind and 
her own. They had loved each other passionately once, and 
now met suddenly, after fateful years. Yet while the very 
sound of his voice, calling her by name, the touch of his hand, 
could bring back the past that had been his and her own, could 
make this estrangement seem unreal and impossible, he re- 
mained calm and almost indifferent. The conviction forced 
her back on her womanly pride. She determined, no matter 
at what present cost to herself, to appear calm and indifferent 
too. 

“ I will tell you why I have come,” he began, stooping to 
pick up the light shawl she had thrown round her shoulders, 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


9 


adjusting it with prompt care for her comfort, yet without the 
slightest trace of tenderness in the act. He saw that, in spite 
of the warmth of the room, his sudden apparition had made 
her tremble — that was all. “ Years ago I did you a great 
wrong,” he went on, fixing his dark, penetrating eyes upon 
her. “ Poor, obscure, and friendless, I then promised to marry 
you, and broke my troth. Rich, famous ” — here he smiled an 
odd, yet winning, smile — “ abounding in friends and followers, 
I am here to redeem it. My errand to-day is to offer you my 
fortunes and my name.” 

She was too much overtaken by surprise to make any an- 
swer. He went on in the same prosaic, straightforward, friendly 
way, no vestige of lover-like enthusiasm or demonstrativeness 
in voice, look, or manner, yet a keen desire to gain his point 
evidently actuating each syllable. 

“You protested at one time that you fully and freely for- 
gave me. A proud, high-spirited woman could not feel other- 
wise. But, in spite of these silent years, I have never forgot- 
ten the past, and never forgiven myself. Pray believe that.” 

“It was a wild dream. Let us forget it,” Bernarda said, 
stirred to hidden depths by his strange indifference, still 
stranger fervor. Since it was plain that his love for her was a 
forgotten thing, no joy, certes, hardly a memory any longer, 
why then had he come with this word “ marriage ” on his lips ? 

They sat looking at each other, these two who had once been 
lovers, hardly, as they once fancied in their fond, foolish exalta- 
tion, any secrets between them, any separate interests possible, 
no matter in what remote future ; and now, after ten brief years, 
utter strangers could hardly be so wide apart. But the saddest 
experience of all was the conviction that this blank, awful sep- 
aration, this wall of granite, which seemed to crush the very 
breath of life out of her, was scarcely perceptible to him. He 
was self -controlled, pleasant, persuasive, without an effort, with- 
out, apparently, an emotion. 

“ There will be time enough to talk over the past, ample leis- 
ure for explanation on both sides,” he said, smiling — and there 


10 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


was wonderful fascination in the smile that lit up his dark 
physiognomy — “ if you will only marry me. Give your assent, 
then, Bernarda ; throw in your lot with that of the conspirator.” 


Chapter III. 

APPEAL AND COUNTER- APPEAL. 

That word brought home to her mind with fresh and still 
more painful force the barrier separating her from her former 
lover. She crimsoned, indignant light flashed in her eyes, pas- 
sionate words were on the point of rising to her lips ; but the 
impulse was checked. By what right should she remonstrate 
with him on the part he was playing, discommend the line of 
conduct he had laid down, asperse his convictions? With vis- 
ible effort she controlled herself. 

“ Concerning the future, also, we shall have abundant oppor- 
tunity for discourse ; for you will be generous. You will repay 
injury by benefit,” he urged, still wearing that ingratiating — 
perhaps, under other circumstances, irresistible — smile. The 
smile, coupled as it was with such careless, almost self-compla- 
cent, words, stung Bernarda, and forced from her reluctant lips 
the question she had been burning to ask. 

“ Be open,” she said ; “ why do you come to-day to ask me 
to be your wife? There is a hidden motive” — she did not 
dare to add — “ since your affection for me is dead.” He looked 
hardly taken aback by the question, only as if it were put too 
soon. 

“You are right. There are other motives besides the desire 
to repair an injury.” Then he added, as he scanned her nar- 
rowly, “I hardly think you are in a frame of mind to do jus- 
tice to them as yet; you must give me leave to come often; 
we will discuss the matters which, of course, lie nearest your 
heart as they do to mine, in spite of that aghast look at the word 
I used just now. Why that look ? Is not my country yours ?” 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


11 


Bernarda listened, with lips unsealed. 

“ Is not my cause your own, also ?” he exclaimed, rising from 
his chair, as if on the point of lashing himself into a fury of 
expostulation. Suddenly recalled to his position, he reseated 
himself, and resumed his former manner. “ No word more 
from me on that subject, unless I obtain the promise I came in 
quest of, and then we must arrange our interviews with due cir- 
cumspection, with absolute security from eavesdroppers. You 
understand ?” 

Bernarda held up her finger, and a girl’s sweet voice sounded 
from below. 

“ My little maid belongs to an amateur choir, and she always 
sings thus while sewing. Yet one precaution more, for your 
satisfaction.” 

For her own also ! She had something secret, urgent, to say 
to this man, whose influence w r as already reasserting itself over 
her. And although, perhaps, in her inmost heart she felt that 
her fate was already sealed, yet it seemed impossible to her to 
I become the wife of one who loved her not — who was a conspir- 
ator ! Thus she swayed between two volitions, two assurances. 
All her future belonged to him. If she did not speak out now' 
t her one opportunity might be lost. She rang the bell then, and 
f her visitor heard her say to the singing-girl, 

“ Marion, please go at once and match those silks I spoke to 
you about this morning. Meantime, should any one call, I will 
answer the door.” 

, Two minutes later the gate clanged, a light step passed down 
J the street. Bernarda re-entered the little parlor, and closed the 
door, with beating heart. They were alone. 

“ Edgeworth,” she began, her voice now freighted with feel- 
! ing and emotion as before it had been impersonal and even, 
“ I had also a word to say to you. Many and many a time I 
i have half resolved to seek you out. Your ways are dark, but 
i not unknown of men. I may, then, judge of them as any other, 
j Could I marry you with this abhorrence of your conduct in my 
I soul, this condemnation of a part on which you pride yourself ? 


12 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


Ob, will nothing bend your awful purpose — nothing turn you 
from ways of blood and crime? Listen. We were young to- , 
getber. You loved me once. You are bound to hear me.” 

She was sitting beside him, her clasped hands resting on his 1 
passive arm, her face raised to his. 

“For think of your conspicuousness, the prestige of your 
name, the influence of your fortune ! A common man could not ; 
do so much harm. You are the evil inspiration of thousands !” .. 

He smiled down upon her now, not sadly, not contemptu- I 
ously, but with an unmistakable imperturbability, almost indif- 
ference. She hardly felt sure that he was listening to her till 
he spoke. 

“ Say anything that you have to say. You are a grand wom- 
an,” he said. 

“ But my words have no power to move you. You are stone- 
deaf, blind, insensible here. Yet you were humane once,” she 
went on ; “ you could not bear to see any living creature suffer ; 
and now” — she rose, and, leaning on the mantelpiece, added, 
with hardly restrained tears and passionate, inter jectional utter- 
ances — “you must see that, in a righteous cause, you are sin- 
ning against righteousness ! Is there not misery enough in the 
world, that you must heap up the sum? And, in these black 
complots and fiendish intrigues, it is ever the innocent who suf- 
fer for the guilty. You strike in the dark, and hit, perhaps, 
their blind ministers — our foes, never. For,” she cried, unable 
any longer to restrain herself, sinking to a low stool at his feet, 
and clasping his knees, “ I cannot pollute my soul in a sacred 
cause ; but I love my country, Edgeworth, as well as you. My 
country — my poor country !” 

That self-constrained, quietly determined mood of his was 
not in the least touched by anything she could say. So much 
was evident to herself, but his eye rested admiringly on the 
beautiful head, now bowed low in anguish. She had surprised 
and impressed him. He was, perhaps, wondering to find that 
years had heightened instead of detracting from her beauty. 

“You will marry me?” he now said, in a low voice. 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


13 


“ For my country’s sake!” she exclaimed, bitterly, and rising, 
no longer a suppliant, but proud and defiant, met his glances; 
“you would use me for your crooked purposes? Bend me 
also to work evil that good may come ? These are the hidden 
motives you hinted at just now.” 

“ There shall be no secrets between us by and by,” he said, 
rising also and standing beside her. “You will learn to see 
things in a very different light when we have had more time 
together ; at least, I am sure of one thing — we respect each 
other’s opinions. We will each listen in turn, willing to be 
convinced.” 

Again an irony that stung and galled. But Bernarda would 
not show any resentment of the speech. While realizing, 
moreover, the implacable nature of his resolve and the cruel 
sarcasm implied in his words, a new light was breaking on her 
mind. As his wife, she might influence him in spite of him- 
self. This marriage, impossible as it seemed, might wear the 
aspect of a duty. 

“ I cannot begin my vindication now. It would take too 
long. Give me leave to come on Sunday afternoon,” he said, 
pleasantly, in the friendliest voice ; “ you are probably at leisure 
then, as well as I.” 

She stood irresolute. 

I “You will, at least, grant me one interview more. I shall 
come next Sunday, then, to have my answer. Meantime, I 
take this token.” 

He bent forward, and very deftly, but without a trace of sen- 
timentality, removed the pansy she wore, in order to place it in 
his button-hole. The flower-head was securely fastened. The 
task occupied him several seconds, during which his face all but 
touched her own ; but he seemed wholly unconscious of the 
| contact, only gratified to have his way. 

“ You shall have a rose, when I come next time, in exchange 
for your heart’s-ease. And what a heart’ s-ease !” he exclaimed, 
as he held up the blossom and looked at it admiringly. “ Where 
do you get these floral paragons, Erna?” 


14 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


The symbolic flower in his hand, the name none else had 
called her by on his lips ! Bernarda felt on the point of burst- 
ing into tears, like any love-sick schoolgirl. His sang-froid 
helped her to restrain herself. 

“ My business is with flowers,” she said, watching him as he 
readjusted the pansy, wondering if he understood why she 
should ever wear one above her heart. “ I am an artificer of 
flowers in silk. Did you not know it ?” 

“ Yes, indeed,” and his face for the first time showed real 
feeling. " My poor girl, life has indeed been hard to you, and 
all through fault of mine. But time presses to-day.” Here he 
glanced at his watch, and took up hat and stick. “ Adieu till 
the day after to-morrow. No hurry then, remember. Keep 
out intruders; let us have plenty of time for quiet talk.” 

Then he made haste to go, leaving Bernarda to those sunny, 
deceptive paths, those dark tracks of remembered sorrow, in 
which she moved alone. For the isolating brightness and 
gloom of a few hours before — did they not symbolize her life, 
alike as much of it as was past, and whatever portion remained 
in store? 

Alone ! Could any spell now break the solitude wrapping 
her round like a garment ? 

He had sought her out at last, and for the purpose of asking 
her to become his wife, and marry him, without affection in 
his heart, without as much as a memory of what that affection 
had been. She recalled every look, word, and act of their un- 
expected interview, to her so fraught with passionate memories, 
to him so transparently unemotional, and could not discover any 
trace of the old love in the least little particular. He had cer- 
tainly shown concern when reminded of the necessity she was 
under of earning her bread ; but it was of the purely benevolent 
kind. The pinched look of a beggar-woman might have called 
forth the same expression of sympathy. And he had carried 
off her flower — a transaction that should have been lover-like. 
Had he asked her for a lucifer-match in order to light his cigar, 
he could not have put less sentiment into the act. 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM, 


15 


Then she reviewed his looks, one by one— -the expression 
with which he had first greeted her, the smile accompanying 
this speech or that, the lingering farewell glance. No indication 
of deep, hidden feeling here ; only the measured, dispassionate 
interest of an old acquaintance. And those cold, careless, peace- 
making kisses! He, her regressive lover — in the eyes of the 
world, her faithless bridegroom — coming, as he did, on an er- 
rand of atonement and reconciliation, might well be excused 
for proffering the kiss of peace. But could there be such a 
pact between them without love ? Was he cold to her simply 
because his heart was now shut to human affection, or had the 
pardoned lapse, the forfeited word, the broken troth, been fol- 
lowed by another kind of disloyalty, harder still to forgive ? 

She sat lost in reverie till her little damsel’s ring at the front 
door recalled the world of actualities. Only two days before 
she should see him again — before her yea or nay must be ac- 
corded. Heaven be praised ! they were common days, dedicated 
to congenial toil and the daily task that seemed in itself a bene- 
diction. 


Chapter IV. 

THE SUNDAY WITHOUT FLOWERS. 

Bernard a’s Sabbaths were flower-festivals all the year round, 
given up after prayers in church to the artless worship of flow- 
ers. 

As soon as the bright days began she would send her sing- 
ing-girl home, put the house-key into her pocket, and, betaking 
herself by rail or boat into the country, remain abroad till 
nightfall. 

Bich-hued flowers of stately shape pleased her fancy best — 
the daffodil of river-holms, the marsh-marigold bordering dusk 
pool, circlet of bright gold set about a black pearl, the wild 
rhododendron, crimson flakes of bygone sunsets lingering in 
the copse. She could do anything she would with such flow- 


16 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


ers as these, or with the ox-eye daisy and the foxglove, rivals 
of the summer, twin glories of meadow and hedgerow. 

Her favorites among flowers were ever those that asserted 
themselves, held their court in the floral world ; and although 
not a petal created by the great Flower-lover but was dear to 
her, the meek, creeping, pathetic things, that seem ever on the 
lookout for sympathy and caresses, delighted her least. The 
petunia was one of her darlings, that superb blotch of color — for 
it is nothing more — so fragile, evanescent, and airy that even 
as we gaze we expect it to take wing like a butterfly. Of the 
pomegranate-flower, also, she never tired, here brilliance and 
solidity reaching their acme. She often found herself longing 
to take part in grand ceremonials on purpose to wear in her 
dark hair these florets cut out of solid coral. But no more fes- 
tivals were in store for her. The flowers were hers to work 
for, to rejoice in, to wear for a lost love’s sake. That was all. 
Much as she delighted in the country, therefore, her love of 
flowers was best satisfied in winter-gardens, those collections of 
tropical plants under glass, maintained at such lavish expense 
and with such learned care, which can in a moment transport 
us to another clime. She could not visit the great national 
hothouses on a Sunday, it is true, but a dozen tropical lounges 
on a smaller scale were open to her. She was on the friendli- 
est terms with the great gardeners round about London, and 
to their conservatories she paid long visits, inspecting fresh ar- 
rivals, choosing new models for her atelier, carrying away a 
pansy for her breast -knot. And sometimes — for she had 
awakened sympathies among her young embroiderers, if she 
had avoided friendships — there would be a bridal bouquet to 
select, or perchance a funeral wreath. One girl was about to 
become a wife ; another was made an orphan. 

She encouraged her apprentices to talk to her about their 
homes, joys, and sorrows, even love-affairs, and any unusual 
event was celebrated with flowers. She never gave anything 
else by way of a friendly token, hoping and believing that such 
little things affect even the most careless, and that one and aU 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


17 


of her girls would be better in after-life for this flower-appren- 
ticeship. 

It suddenly and painfully dawned upon her mind, when the 
next Sunday came round, that it was to be a day without flow- 
ers ! She shuddered as she glanced fearfully towards the hid- 
den future, wondering what lay concealed behind that dark- 
ness — what lay behind for her and for him ? 

As the meeting drew near she went through a phase of feel- 
ing which many of us must have experienced, and none, surely, 
are able to forget. 

We have had a dim conception all our lives of the abysses 
of crime and anguish, and unfathomable depths of sin and mis- 
ery that lie outside ordinary existence, and are happily escaped 
by the vast proportion of humanity. On a sudden, without 
the slightest warning, without any participatory guilt or suffer- 
ing, we are brought into contact with evil, wearing its most 
awful shape, and are made to pass under that dread shadow, to 
touch that dark vesture-hem. 

The petition-wall that separated us from horror or misery 
incarnate is broken down. We hide our faces, hasten on, and 
try to shut out the vision ; but ever and anon it comes back. 

Thus was it with Bernarda now. Edgeworth’s dark secrets 
might never, perhaps, so much as be whispered in her ear. 
From his fierce deeds she should always stand aloof. To-day, 
even, might be one of final valediction. Yet, because she had 
seen him and spoken to him, life would never be the same. 
Evil seemed so much nearer — righteousness so much farther 
off! 

They might to-day bid each other a last farewell ; but hence- 
forth, on her part, at any rate, indifference would be feigned. 
She should follow his career with keener, more painful, interest 
than before. His wrongdoing would inflict a deeper wound. 
She could never save him, but she should suffer for him all the 
more acutely. 

The sound of his ring came as an absolute relief to unhappy, 
aimless thoughts. She did not in the least feel sure how their 

2 


18 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


interview would end; but she longed to get it over — only to 
get it over ! 

He came in, wearing an ingratiating, animated smile, no 
cloud on his brow, the frankest, friendliest words on his lips. 

“ How cheerful and pleasant is this room of yours !” he said, 
glancing round. “ A place inviting to confidential talk ! And 
I see your pansy has renewed itself, like a phoenix. Well, do 
with these roses as you will.” 

The bouquet of magnificent crimson roses so carelessly prof- 
fered was undemonstratively received. Bernarda merely thanked 
him, then placed the fiowers in a little silver epergne on the 
table. 

“ I am not in your way, I hope ?” he said deferentially ; “ I 
hinder no engagements, keep away no visitors ?” 

“ My Sundays are my own,” Bernarda answered. 

“You are happy to be able thus to keep one day in the 
week without a mortgage on it,” he said, still gay and pleasant. 
u Ah, if I could always do that ! But we have so much to 
say ! We had better begin at once.” 

The afternoon was bright, but cold, and Bernarda’s fire wore 
a tempting look. He drew his chair nearer, and invited her to 
do the same. They sat opposite to each other, divided by the 
fireplace. Matter-of-fact, almost cold and business-like, as was 
his behavior to her, he yet seemed alive to the undefined graces 
of this little room, the nameless charm imparted to her sur- 
roundings by a feminine presence. The elegances here were 
not those of an expensive woman, only the indications of a 
richly endowed, dignified, independent nature. Its owner had 
given an atmosphere to the place, set upon it the seal of 
a strongly marked individuality. To the conspirator this 
soothing woman’s room, with its glowing hearth, its low easy- 
chairs enticing to intimate talk, its seclusion from the turmoil 
of London, seemed already a harbor of refuge, a sanctuary in 
which his uneasy spirit might find rest and refreshment. He 
was, perhaps, thinking, in that momentary silence before their 
confidences began, that, come what might, he must have Ber- 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


19 


narda’s friendship. She would surely not deny him that. He 
began, at last, abruptly, no circumlocution or preamble, the 
very heart of the matter plucked at and held up to the light. 

“ You threw out a hint, or, rather, I should say, you put a 
question to me the other day concerning the hidden motives 
of my conduct. Why have I come now to ask you to marry 
me? You shall know. Fear no concealments or mysteries 
here. In the first place, then, while ready to pledge myself to 
desperate courses for my country’s sake, I cannot support the 
notion of having behaved badly to a woman. There you have 
the homely, unvarnished truth.” 

“I released you from your promise. We were both to 
blame,” Bernarda said, simply. “It pained me to think you 
had never cared for me. That was all.” 

Edgeworth looked at her narrowly, curiously. He leaned 
forward. A hasty word seemed on his lips ; then the impulse 
was checked, and he went on with his palinode : 

“The world blamed you. I am thinking of your fortunes, 
my poor Erna! When I persuaded you into that wild flight 
with me you were innocent of harm as you had been in your 
cradle; there was no thought dishonoring to either of us in 
my heart ; all things were arranged for our marriage ; yet, be- 
cause we rashly travelled two hundred miles in each other’s 
company, your good name was forfeited — ” 

“ For a time only,” Bernarda replied, with a look of pain. 
“You see that I have righted myself in the world’s esteem 
long ago. Let the past be forgotten.” 

“ I have not forgotten it, anyhow,” he said coolly. “ Your 
worldly prospects were ruined, you had to earn a livelihood 
under difficult circumstances. Your family cast you off; and 
all this happened through fault of mine. I now want you to 
share the good things of life with me. It is the only atone- 
ment I can ever make.” 

There was nothing to read in her face, and he went on in 
the same brief, undemonstrative manner : 

“Now you have one motive laid bare, and you cannot say 


20 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


that it is unworthy. Hearken to another; and that should not 
discommend me to your mind, either. Even I, the arch con- 
spirator, cannot live alone. We dynamiters, as they call us, 
need sympathy as well as ordinary men. I have neither moth- 
er, sister, nor kinswoman. Who should share my home, the 
life of my fireside, but yourself ?” 

Once more he glanced penetratingly at her, and again, with- 
out being able to discover whether his words weighed or no, 
he continued : 

“Not only the life of my fireside, Erna — mark that — also 
the life I am compelled to lead in and before the world.” 

He smiled as he surveyed her from head to foot, taking in 
each beautiful detail of the picture — the well-shaped head, with 
its dark, glossy braids, the statuesque figure, the close-fitting 
winter gown of deepest, richest crimson, with the usual pansy, 
to-day amethyst and gold, worn by way of ornament. 

“You are fitted to be the mistress of a house like mine — 
no mansion, certainly, yet no semi-detached villa, either, much 
less a sordid, gloomy lodging. All ugliness kept in the back- 
ground, you should be in your element there.” 

Again that searching look on his part, that enigmatic silence 
on hers. 

“Another and yet another reason,” he went on, almost gay- 
ly ; “ as I said before, in all matters that concern our two selves 
only I will be quite open with you ; you are no common 
woman ; your spirit is high ; no ordinary nobleness is yours. 
When” — here he watched the effect of his words, evidently 
prepared for a protest — “ when I have won you over to my 
way of thinking, you might render glorious service to your 
people, your religion, your country.” 

Her passiveness was at an end now. She bent forward, and, 
no longer able to control herself, caught one of his hands in 
hers in an agony of entreaty and remonstrance. 

“Not a word more,” she cried. “If you ever loved this 
poor Erna at all, not a word more !” 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


21 


Chapter V. 

THE LIFTED MASK. 

He raised that fair, slender hand to his lips with a cold, pas- 
sionless kindness, in striking contrast to her own fervor and 
agitation. 

A stranger, stopping to caress some little tearful waif in the 
streets, would have shown as much feeling. Not that Ber- 
narda was in tears. The mood to which he had brought her 
was of protest rather than yielding. She did not, perhaps, 
conceal that she loved him still, but another passion dominated 
her just then. Her whole nature rose up in revolt against that 
dark career, those tortuous ways, those creeds to be writ with 
human blood, in which he gloried. 

Both were silent for a brief space. A certain lazy mood 
seemed to possess him. The Sabbath stillness of that retired 
street, the pleasant, subdued cheerfulness of her little room, the 
unwonted enjoyment of a personal talk — all these consider- 
ations made him evidently disinclined to approach dreadful 
themes. He wanted to talk quietly, practically, and unemo- 
tionally, about the future, in so far as it immediately concerned 
Bernarda and himself. As she now glanced at' him, stemming 
the tide of passionate words for a while, hearkening for what 
he should say next, it struck her painfully what a noble creat- 
ure this Edgeworth might be, but for the ugly w T ay in which 
he chose to transform himself. Where would one find a 
manlier presence, a better-favored physiognomy, a more kin- 
dling smile, a sweeter voice? And there had never been any 
shifting or meanness about him. Looking back calmly on the 
past, Bernarda hardly blamed his conduct towards herself now. 
Without prospects, without a calling, unsettled of purpose, a 


22 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


poor dependent of the rich house in which she lived a govern- 
ess, he had won her girlish love, and had induced her to fly 
secretly with him, as they hoped, to find an El Dorado in the 
far West. When, on the eve of their marriage, he allowed 
himself to be overruled by his kinsfolk, and to start for the 
New World alone, she admitted that he acted under very strong 
pressure, and, perhaps, realized that he was persuaded into giv- 
ing her up as much in her worldly interests as his own. The 
real grief to her had been those long, unexplained years of 
silence and neglect. She had released him from his word. 
Nothing was whispered of the future in that hurried, passion- 
ate leave-taking. Why had he never so much as given a sign of 
his existence until now ? Therein lay the mystery that touched 
her most nearly. Yet, as she now scanned the face of her for- 
mer lover, she failed to read anything there to disconcert her. 
His mind might be filled with fearful thoughts — he had thrown 
in his lot with that of desperate men — yet it was clear to her 
that, personally, he had not degraded himself. But for the 
deadly part he chose to play — which, however, the uninitiated 
would never suspect — no one’s outward appearance could be 
more calculated to inspire trust and liking. 

“You bid me not speak, Erna, but with what a look! I 
know all that is passing in your mind. Hear me out, then 
deny me justice if you can or dare ! 4 If you ever loved me,’ 

you said just now — we will go back to that text presently. I 
want you not to think of Edgeworth, the individual personally 
known to you and mixed up with your own past life. Bend 
your mind to a portrait in the abstract, an anonymous person- 
age, type, if you will, that of the lover of justice, the patriot, 
the champion of our afflicted race.” 

She had removed her chair a little farther under the shadow 
of the window-curtain, and, with head bowed down and face 
averted, listened for what he should say. She was bound to 
hear him, and in silence. It had become plain to her that re- 
monstrance was futile, words ineffectual, as children’s dams raised 
to keep back the tide. He was unreachable, unanswerable. 




THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


23 


“ You approve our ends — at least, I take it for granted that 
you have not so far forsworn your country,” he began ; “ but 
you abhor our means. That I take to be your position. Do 
you, then, expect miracles in these days — angelic battalions, 
Heaven-sent, to smite the oppressor, plagues to strike terror 
into the minds of the multitude, horrible natural phenomena, 
to bring all on their knees? No, my poor girl; you and I, 
and every man, woman, and child of our unhappy race, must 
at last recognize one fact — deliverance can only come from 
ourselves. We have no hope but in the hate born of deadliest 
wrong, and the resistance engendered of despair. Union first, 
force afterwards ; these are the only weapons that we can wield 
to any purpose. You do not pretend to deny it.” 

“But the snares laid in the dark, the fatal traps set so 
stealthily ! It is a perpetual nightmare to me,” cried Bernar- 
da ; “ you are not at warfare with fiends, but human beings. 
Be merciful ! Keep your hands from shedding blood.” 

He smiled grimly. 

“ Was the French Revolution merciful ? Did not the inno- 
cent suffer for the guilty then ? Understand me, Erna, I am a 
humane man, a lover of peace ; the bare notion of shedding 
human blood is odious to me ; yet were I called upon, in this 
sacred, this awful cause, to connive at the destruction of an en- 
tire city — ay, were it London itself — I should say, not the vin- 
dictiveness of man, but the indignation of Heaven has spoken !” 

Horror-stricken, fascinated, electrified by the fervor of his 
utterances, she looked up now and saw that, at last, he was 
allowing passion to have its way. His voice gathered in vol- 
ume and emphasis, his well-proportioned figure seemed to take 
larger dimensions, his dark eyes flashed fierce, scornful light. 

“ You shrink back appalled. I am at this moment loath- 
some to you ; yet hear me out. We revolutionists, called upon 
to redress wrongs that outrage humanity, have no resource but 
so to unman ourselves. We must close our hearts to pity, 
strip off the last vestige of weakness, ere we are fit for our 
work. But there is self-abnegation here, and self-abnegation 


24 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


is ever a kind of nobleness ! I have allowed myself to grow 
dark, desperate, reckless of consequences. Do I better my 
own case by so doing? Am I happier? Should I, from 
choice, think you, league myself with midnight assassins and 
contrivers of wholesale murder? join the fellowship of brava- 
does who would give me my death-stab to-morrow if I betrayed 
them ? These necessities, I admit, are frightful, and, up to a 
certain point, demoralizing ; yet they have another side. Here 
is a man — I may aver so much of myself — naturally of humane 
instincts, sensitive as to right and wrong, fastidious in his deal- 
ings with others, whom injustice has turned, if not into a mon- 
ster or a blackguard, at least into a desperado. Mark you, my 
good girl, I am conscious of the transformation, although I no 
longer rebel against it; you, for one, will believe that I have 
hearkened, not to inclination, but to sternest duty. Think 
how much I give up, all that men most prize — peaceful years, 
the respect of others, a stainless memory — and in exchange for 
what? Maybe exile, imprisonment, or something worse and 
better.” 

A strange expression, made up of scorn, exaltation, and defi- 
ance, caused Bernarda to turn tremblingly towards him, await- 
ing the climax in undefined dread and horror. It came like a 
thunder-clap. For a moment she felt awed, shamed out of 
personal feeling, drawn towards him by an impulse she could 
not explain. 

“You must know what I mean. This name, so honorable 
hitherto, that I bear, may, in my own person, be befouled by 
a felon’s end. Yet” — here he spoke with overmastering pas- 
sion — “ do not think for a moment that the disgrace would be 
felt as such by me. Thus ignominiously to die for our people 
were, in my eyes, a holy martyrdom. You are no longer my 
countrywoman if you are not ready to share such glory — such 
shame !” 

There was contagion in his enthusiasm — even sublimity in 
the storm of patriotic ardor to which he had surrendered him- 
self. But although her feelings were worked upon, she did 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


25 


not give way. His utterances lifted her out of the common, 
harmless world, not into his own. She was as far as ever from 
sympathizing with his means, however she might approve his 
ends. He had, moreover, recalled those martyrdoms, as he des- 
ignated them, of less heroic souls, so familiar in these days. 
Ghastly visions flitted before her mind’s eye of the sad proces- 
sions that issue at dawn from prison-walls — the condemned, 
shorn and shriven, supported by the priest, the automatic min- 
isters of justice, the horrid paraphernalia, the brutality with 
which all ends. How much more pitiable the fate of these 
blind instruments and obscure tools than that of their haughty 
leaders ! Her opinions were like Edgeworth’s — immovable. 
Nothing he could say w'ould alter her abhorrence of his theo- 
ries; but the man himself, the conspirator, inspired a feeling 
akin to admiration. There came in a moment — no Heaven- 
sent inspiration, no illuminating flash of genius, swifter, less 
expected — a thought to guide her out of her dilemma, as far 
as her former lover was concerned. She had let him come to- 
day, and without having herself arrived at any decision. Ev- 
ery word he had spoken during the last half-hour but strength- 
ened an instinctive conviction that this interview would be their 
last, and that she could not, because she dared not, ally herself 
with Edgeworth’s destiny. But, on a sudden, and without any 
warning, she saw herself brought to the very conclusion that 
had lately seemed impossible. No middle way remained. 

Friendship was possible with him — the easy intercourse of 
two exiles, two early friends ; there were many ways in which, 
as an outsider, she might brighten his daily existence — perhaps, 
in some slight degree, influence and guide him. But only as 
his wife could she share those dark and stormy fortunes. Only 
as his wife could she hope to bend that iron purpose, save him, 
and, perhaps, how many others, from impending doom ! Af- 
terwards, when she had laid down for herself a definite line of 
action, and was able to account for every one of her motives in 
dealing with Edgeworth, she wondered at the promptitude with 
which she had answered him. 


26 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


Light had flashed upon the dark path she was to follow, but 
it only made the darkness more inscrutable and portentous. 
An inner voice had spoken, not siren-sweet, but direful and 
foreboding. 

“ I am ready,” she said, controlling her emotion, “ not to 
share your guilt, Edgeworth — never ask that, only the rest. 
Will you make such a pact with me ? Will you bind yourself 
to respect my convictions, as I will promise to respect yours ?” 

He rose, and, standing before her, looked down into her face, 
smiling contentedly, perhaps a little ironically. 

“ Nay, Erna, I never asked you to share my guilt, as you put 
it. One life I have to lead, apart even from a wife. Then all 
is settled so far ; so take this, and this.” 

So saying, he dropped once more a careless kiss on her fore- 
head, and, drawing from his purse a little gold ring, set with a 
shamrock in fine emeralds, on which were dropped a pearl or 
two — dew-drops — placed it on the fourth finger of her left hand. 

“ There is yet something I have to say,” he said ; “ and 
when I have said it, suppose — suppose — ” He wiped the 
sweat from his handsome brow, leaned back in his arm-chair 
with a sense of relief. “ I can never talk calmly of these mat- 
ters,” he said. “ We will keep them in the background for 
the future — at least, from an argumentative point of view. No 
purpose is served by thus agitating ourselves, and talking in 
such high-pitched strain parches the throat — makes one thirsty.” 

He glanced archly at a little silver kettle on the buffet, and 
added, 

“ Suppose, my dear, you make me a cup of tea?” 


Chapter VI. 

ONE CONFIDENCE MORE. 

Bernarda lighted the spirit-lamp under her silver kettle, 
and, drawing out a tiny table, set the tea-things. This prosaic 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


27 


yet graceful task was welcome after the excitement she had 
just gone through, and seeing Edgeworth thus able to talk 
smoothly and unemotionally of their own affairs, she deter- 
mined to betray no more feeling throughout the remainder of 
their interview. Collectedness should be met by collectedness, 
indifference by indifference. 

“ It pained you to think I had never cared for you, you said 
just now,” he began, as, with his limbs drawn out in an atti- 
tude of repose, his hands in his pockets, he contentedly watched 
her make the tea. “ Well, I certainly never cared for you as 
you deserved, but I never became the slave of any other wom- 
an, either. I am bound to tell you that. Not that a pretty 
face has never lightly beguiled my fancy here and there. I am 
an adorer of your sex. Since our parting I have fallen in love, 
as the saying goes, and ” — here he laughed grimly — “ been fall- 
en in love with, but without any thought of marriage — on my 
word, without any thought of marriage. Why, then, you will 
ask, this silence, this apparent forgetfulness ?” 

He shook off his lazy mood, raised himself in his chair, and 
again became alert and emphatic. 

“ Why, indeed ! My career is the best answer. What busi- 
ness had I, the rover, the penniless adventurer, the conspirator, 
with a wife ? For, hardly had I reached the other side of the 
Atlantic when I wildly took up those ideas which have since 
shaped my career. I purposely avoided correspondence with 
you. I said to myself, ‘ She will forget me ; I shall forget her. 
Let it be.’ You see, men in my case belong to their causes, 
their leaders, or instruments — not to themselves at all; and in 
those first reckless, exciting, American years marriage was out 
of the question. Things, however, altered. I inherited money, 
an estate, as you do not, perhaps, know. The course of events 
called me to Europe. The rest you know.” 

He now produced a little card, on which was printed : 

“ Bernarda Burke , Artist in Flower Embroidery, Holly House , 
Chelsea .” 

“ At an exhibition held in New York two or three years ago, 


28 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


I came upon a little stand devoted to your handiwork, and the 
stall-keeper gave me this. I made up my mind then that, if 
ever my fortunes mended, I would ask you to forget and for- 
give, and marry me.” 

She made no reply. What reply, indeed, was there to make ? 
Assent was evidently all he needed, and that she had given. 
The ring, with its shamrock im pearled, glittered on her finger. 
The fragile china cup she now handed to him had a shamrock 
too. 

“ How pleasant to pledge each other in a cup of tea !” he 
said ; “ and you are a mistress in the art of making it, Erna. 
Come, now, every Sunday you will invite me at this hour, won’t 
you — every Sunday till — you understand ?” 

“ Would not a stroll out of doors be better on fine days ? I 
could meet you in the park,” Bernarda made reply. “ Do not 
accuse me of inhospitality — I delight in receiving my friends — 
but your visits might be remarked.” 

“ What if they are, since in a few weeks we shall be married ? 
And do shut up your workroom, my dear girl. Why toil and 
moil any longer? I have enough and to spare for both of us.” 

“ Shut up my workroom !” Bernarda cried, aghast. “ Not till 
the very last moment, Edgeworth. You do not know what 
happy hours I spend there.” 

“ As you please, of course. But those fine days you hinted 
at just now — will you guarantee them, balmy reminders of an 
Indian summer, in November? No, my dear; a fireside talk is 
much more seductive, and these symbolic little cups make the 
thing very complete. I hope you keep them for true patriots 
like myself ?” 

“ They would not often be called into requisition if I did,” 
Bernarda said, with a caustic smile. “ And what would my 
habitual guests say if they knew who was drinking out of one 
at this very moment ?” 

He laughed frankly and heartily. 

“ Who are your habitual guests ? Describe them categori- 
cally. It interests me,” he said. “ Then in turn I will tell you 

■ » 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


29 


some of the adventures that have befallen me since we met last. 
We have plenty to talk about. By the way — ” 

Here he set down his teacup, rose, and, bending down, exam- 
ined the pansy so beautifully adorning her fichu of old Irish lace. 

“ Do you never change your flower ? Is it because we pledged 
each other with a pansy — exchanged a flower because we had 
no money for rings on our betrothal day ?” 

Bernarda was unready with her response, and, meantime, he 
coolly, as before, removed the blossom from its resting-place, 
and examined it minutely, holding it in various positions. 

“ Has it never struck you that there is a death’s-head in this 
flower ? Eye those dark spots as I hold it thus. Nothing was 
ever better defined. Throw the evil augury away, and wear my 
rose instead. ’Tis of happier omen than a death’s-head.’’ 

“ If it were so ordained that those who willed it might live 
forever 1” Bernarda said again, with one of her sarcastic smiles. 
She let him, however, unceremoniously replace the pansy by a 
magnificent Gloire de Dijon from the silver epergne. Then he 
passed on to other topics, never reverting to his unanswered 
question. 

“ I have not said half that I had to say,” he said, as he stood 
on the hearthrug, hat and stick in hand, ready to go. “ There 
is one thing.” After a moment’s hesitation he added : “ Let 
us have no delays. Let the thing be done at once. You know 
what I mean.” 

“ Impossible !” she cried, aghast. ‘‘There is my work to 
think of — my apprentices. I must have time to find a succes- 
sor, to finish all commissions, and put things in order.” 

“ Surely a month would enable you to do all this ?” . 

“ Indeed, no,” she said, still painfully eager. “ My poor girls 
must not be thrown out of employment. I cannot leave my 
handiwork to be finished by others. It would be dishonorable 
thus to break my engagements.” 

He acquiesced at last with a bad grace. 

“ We will say three months hence then ? You cannot say no 
to that proposition. I can make no further compromises. One 


30 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


word more. My life is, as you must know, exposed to daily 
hazards. Will you get two of your apprentices — not minors — 
to witness a deed for me. I want to leave the bulk of my 
property to you.” 

“ Why should you do that ?” she asked, demurely. 

“Because I have no one else in the world to leave it to. 
There, you have the unvarnished truth.” 

“ The intention is kind,” she got out at last. 

“ My dear girl, we conspirators do not deal in intentions, but 
in deeds. The document is already drawn up. I will bring it 
for signature and attestation to-morrow. Not to stay, not to 
hinder you,” he added ; “ just to get the thing done and off my 
mind.” 

A friendly “ Good-bye, then, till to-morrow,” on both sides, 
and then they parted. No lingering look, no last, fond whis- 
pered word, no loverlike adieu. 

Bernarda stood for some minutes lost in thought, and, know- 
ing well that none could witness or record them, shed a few last 
proud tears. 


Chapter VII. 

THE FLOWER OF DESTINY AND A DISCOURSE ON A PASTY. 

How was the tenor of Bernarda’s daily existence changed by 
those Sunday visits! Edgeworth came regularly, and although 
their talk was for the most part of a harmless, personal kind, 
the door would be occasionally thrown wide upon a black, un- 
conscionable world. Bernarda realized that the even, guileless 
life with flowers was over; vanished the eager quest in flowery 
dingles and sun-bright fields; gone, never to return, the rap- 
turous hours amid tropic splendors; and, ere long, would be 
ended, too, the days sweetened and subdued by* congenial toil, 
the companionship of her innocent, sportive, flower-wearing 
girls, and the task of beautifying thousands of unknown dwell- 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


31 


ings with imperishable flowers. It seemed to Bernarda that in 
parting with this familiar calling she was bidding farewell, not 
only to her best friend, but to a kind of talisman. The neces- 
sity of earning daily bread, and the privilege of earning it in a 
manner positively fascinating to one of her especial turn of 
mind, had, perhaps, staved off mental shipwreck. She had said 
this to herself again and again, as she recalled the past, and 
lived once more the shock that Edgeworth’s conduct had given 
her moral nature. Desertion she would not call it. He had 
given her up in a moment of desperate fortunes. To have 
kept to his word would have seemed doing her wrong. The 
pansy she wore recalled that later and far less pardonable dere- 
liction, the unbroken silence of ten long years. Her betrothal 
flower, worn so constantly, symbolized many things ; but, above 
all, the injustice at the root of such unfaithfulness. She wore 
it as a reminder to be just to a hair’s-breadth in her dealings 
with others, especially where their affections were concerned. 
She would never, for instance, encourage the sentimental cling- 
ing of any of her girls, or seem to care for them in the least 
degree more than was the case. She was ever on her guard 
against receiving or according hasty affection. 

In a certain fanciful sense she regarded her pansy as a 
flower of destiny, and not even Edgeworth’s railleries about the 
death’s-head could now make her exchange it for any other. 
Why should she forget the sweetest, sternest lesson of her life? 

In her wild, girlish days she had passionately loved the man 
she was now going to marry without any love on her side or his 
own. But the secret she had ever kept, and even Edgeworth 
would never know it now. A vindictive or less generous woman 
would have regarded such a position very differently. Ber- 
narda put personal motives aside, and only welcomed her lov- 
er’s tardy reparation as a chance of moral rescue for himself. 
Her love for him was dead. For all that she might win him 
I back, and stop him midway in his career ! 

As yet her conduct was undefined, and all the future lay 
veiled in uncertainty. But one thing was clear. If these fre- 


32 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


quent visits of Edgeworth’s changed the tenor of Bernarda’s 
life, they were certainly not without influence on his own. 
The oftener he came the oftener he wanted to come. The 
more he confided in her the more it seemed that he must con- 
fide. In spite, moreover, of an evident desire to be circum- 
spect, he would sometimes manifest the incaution that seems 
part of a conspirator’s character. A thousand circumstances, 
mere bagatelles in themselves, showed Bernarda whither she 
was drifting. The pleasant sense of freedom and safeness, born 
of obscurity, could be hers no longer. Already she had linked 
her fate with Edgeworth’s. To herself she belonged not now. 

Winter set in early that year, November snows covering Oc- 
tober roses, but the more inclement and boisterous the weather, 
the more alertly he came. 

Bernarda’s pretty room, with its close-drawn curtains and 
blazing logs, seemed to exercise a kind of glamour over him. 
The long, if not confidential, yet unconstrained, talks, the so- 
licitude, and, in a certain sense, protectiveness found by a man 
at a woman’s fireside, the feeling of fellowship evoked by the 
fragrant tea, sipped from her shamrock cups — these things soon 
became matters of habit, all the more agreeable because they 
were a relief to the life he led outside Bernarda’s doors. Their 
relations remained apparently the same, not a trace of awaken- 
ing passion on his side or revived affection on hers. But with- 
out being young and romantic, an affianced bride and bride- 
groom may find much to say to each other. She could show 
that concern for his health becoming a woman about to ex- 
change the name of friend for that of wife. He would find 
himself criticising her dress or consulting her taste as to the 
matter of a new fur-bordered coat. 

One evening, after a longer and livelier visit than usual, he 
begged Bernarda’s permission to remain to supper. 

“ Anyhow, do not drive me out for another hour,” he said, 
drawing aside the curtain an inch, and pointing to the snow- 
flakes that fell thick and fast. “ I know what your modest lit- 
tle seven-o’clock suppers are, my dear ; I have encountered the 


j 


THE ELOWER OF DOOM. 


33 

singing-girl with her tray before now. Well, share your glass 
of milk and sandwich with me for once — just once ! Then I 
shall have nothing to do but to find my way home, and go to 
bed.” 

Bernarda let him have his way. Certainly, she reasoned with 
herself, her company was the best, or, at least, the safest, for 
him just now\ His very gayety and entrain frightened her. 
She felt sure that he was standing on the edge of a precipice; 
was, perhaps, lending himself to some plot more dreadful than 
any with which such conspiracies had as yet terrified the world. 
But she could not, dared not, question him, or even lead him 
into confidences. Her little piano stood open, and, uninvited, 
she sat down to play and sing to him. It was impossible that 
there should be any longer a vestige of ceremoniousness be- 
tween two friends about to seal their friendship by marriage 
in a few weeks. Bernarda, moreover, was deliberately laying 
herself out to please. No woman could be less of a coquette 
than she. But, without trying to captivate his fancy, she might 
regain her empire over his affections, and every hour of easy 
fireside intercourse made the task easier. 

“ Ah, a song or two before w r e sup and say good-night,” he 
said, with a smile of satisfaction ; “ a song of our youth — a 
song of our country — eh, Erna?” 

She began a pathetic little ballad, and, lazily, from his arm- 
chair he joined in the refrain. The very freedom of this inter- 
course constituted its chief charm in his mind. Had he felt 
compelled to stand by the piano, deferentially turning over the 
leaves, even Bernarda’s music would have been no longer a re- 
freshment. 

So effortless, almost mechanical, sounded that rich, sweet 
voice of his on Bernarda’s ears that she hardly felt sure if he 
were listening at all. 

He seemed to be almost unconsciously repeating w 7 ords and 
melody familiar to him from childhood. 

Nor did she ever choose her songs with any set purpose. 
She would not point a moral at him in this way. The moral 

3 


34 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


must come of itself, just as some especial butterfly, cloud, or 
field-flower strikes the careless eye, aud preaches to the unex- 
pectant mind. Thus an hour passed, and the singing-girl ap- 
peared with the supper-tray. But Bernarda had given a stealthy 
order, and the meal was suited to a hungry man. The ruddy 
wine of happy France was there, just as it came from a French 
cellar. There was a meat pasty, hot from an Italian oven close 
by, and something to fall back upon in the shape of that dainty 
of all dainties — a Suffolk ham sweetened in old harvest-beer, 
and lastly, for grace, rather than gross appetite, the lighter 
cates that women love — a cake, a pear, and a little lump of 
vermilion-colored jelly, clear as a sea-anemone. 

“ On my word,’ 7 he said, “ you feast me as if I were a prince ! 
Although why princes should ever be feasted I cannot conceive, 
seeing that they are so surfeited with good things, prison-fare 
is the only change one could think of as affording a possible 
treat to them. Was ever a woman like you? Nothing what- 
ever seems a trouble 1” 

“You must have consorted with dolts and brainless idiots 
all these years,” Bernarda replied, quietly satiric. “ Is it such 
a stroke of genius to send for a pasty when your next-door neigh- 
bor happens to be a confectioner ?” 

“ The matter is much more complicated than you think,” he 
said, as he refected with admirable relish, soon, uninvited, re- 
plenishing her plate and his own. “In the first place, there 
is to think of the pasty ; in the second, to have tested the ex- 
cellency of the pasty beforehand; in the third, to be perfectly 
sure that the said pasty will come steaming hot to table ; in 
the fourth, to be equally certain that your guest’s especial di- 
gestion is adapted to a ticklish thing like a pasty ; in the fifth, 
to exercise mathematical reasoning concerning the pasty; if 
too small, your visitor is afraid to eat his fill ; if too large, ap- 
petite is surfeited in advance ; sixthly — ” 

“ My dear Edgeworth,” Bernarda broke in, merrily, laying a 
long; slender, beautiful hand on his arm, “ in Heaven’s name 
finish your tirade ! There is the ham to moralize upon, and 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


35 


when was ever all said that can possibly be said about so sug- 
gestive a thing as a ham ?” 

“You don’t suppose I am going to take the ham in hand 
to-day ?” he said, becoming sportive as herself. “ My dear girl, 
I forbid you to touch it either ; you shall see me do justice to 
the ham, both as an eater and a rhetorician, to-morrow, and 
how many to-morrows ! You will never finish it without me. 
That is quite certain !” 


Chapter VIII. 

THE VOICE FATILOQUENT. 

That genial, almost happy, evening ended early. Ten of the 
clock had not yet chimed from the thousand city churches 
when the lights were put out in Bernarda’s house, and she was 
making ready for rest, with a smile on her lips. Edgeworth’s 
wit and high spirits were irresistible, and his kind, almost af- 
fectionate, leave-taking touched her. He was over-grateful for 
such little services, she thought; a song, a glowing hearth, a 
meal — these were all she had given him, yet he had lingered on 
the threshold to thank her again and again. 

Since their first interview he had never kissed her. She 
shrank from anything like a lover-like demonstration, and he 
saw it. Why should there be any semblance between them 
of a feeling that did not exist? her face said always. So they 
invariably met and parted after the manner of mere friends, 
although, in a certain prosaic, wholesome sense, every hour of 
intercourse brought them nearer together. 

The smile lingered on Bernarda’s face to-night as, wrapped 
in a fleecy white dressing-gown, and leaning back in a fauteuil, 
she abandoned herself to the pleasant task of combing her long 
black hair. For a moment she allowed her mind to indulge 
in a strange, a comfortable, delusion. This Edgeworth could 
never become a man of crime and villainy after all. From un- 


36 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


der the upas-tree of evil he would, perehance, slowly, but surely, 
pass. Not love, but something purer, more lasting, better, 
would, step by step, entice him into ways of righteousness and 
peace. By friendship should the man she had once adored be 
rescued from perdition now. 

On a sudden she was aroused from these pleasant dreams by 
a painful apparition — reality it hardly seemed to her, in that 
first moment of shocked surprise. 

There stood her bright, sportive Marion, a girl almost Undine- 
like in her incapacity to grasp the serious side of things — there 
stood the ever-radiant, ever-singing Marion, white and trem- 
bling, a prey to abject terror. 

“Mistress!” cried the girl, coming to Bernarda’s side and 
hiding her face in the folds of her white dressing-gown — 

“ mistress, I dare not sleep alone to-night. We are watched. 
The wicked have designs against us.” 

“ Foolish child !” Bernarda said, as she gently shook off the , 
timid, clinging thing, and rose with a look of determination ; 

“ sleep alone you shall not, if you dread trolls and wraiths. : 
There is my sofa for you. But come, show me where lurk these ' 
would-be thieves, and assassins of two harmless women, for there 
is no money in the house, my Marion. You must be dreaming.” 

“You will find no one,” said the girl, putting back her curls, 
with a childish effort to be self-controlled ; “ it is the mystery 
that frightens me. These dark, peering faces come and go like 
shadows. The stealthy footsteps are here one moment, gone 
the next. And at night I hear voices, horrid whispers close by, 
yet never a creature is to be seen.” 

Light was breaking on Bernarda’s mind now, but for a mo- 
ment she clutched at another interpretation. She scrutinized 
her little maiden as a physician inspects a patient. 

“ You are ailing, perhaps ? I must send you home for a 
change.” 

“ No ; I am as well as can be. I do not wish to leave you,” 
the girl said, fondly taking one of her mistress’s white hands,, 
and stroking her own cheek with it. 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


37 


f “Then,” Bernarda answered, smiling down indulgently on 
the pale, pretty, weeping child — “ then we must have the lame 
sister to keep you company till you get rid of these foolish fan- 
cies. And now I will go and look round the house, then to bed.” 

“ Mistress,” Marion burst out at last, unable any longer to 
keep back her dreadful revelation, forced by pure terror into 
confronting Bernarda’s displeasure, “ I must speak out. The 
house has been watched from the first day Mr. Edgeworth set 
foot in it.” 

Bernarda turned as pale then as her little serving-maid. There 
had spoken no child’s fantasy, but a voice fatiloquent, a voice 
of doom ! She controlled herself, however ; not for worlds 
should any one, much less a sixteen-year-old' girl, know what 
was passing in her mind, or have any share in her affairs. 
Very kindly she put Marion away, and reiterated her com- 
mands. 

“ To bed — to bed ; away with such fancies !” she cried ; “ to- 
night on my sofa, and to-morrow the lame sister comes to keep 
foolish Marion company.” 

It was characteristic of both mistress and maid that Bernar- 
da felt under no necessity to hold up a warning finger and 
whisper the word “ Beware 1” in Marion’s ear now. Even in a 
crisis like this she could entirely trust the girl’s sense of honor. 
Not even the lame sister would know of the connection in 
Marion’s mind between Edgeworth’s visits and the mysterious 
signs, should they be repeated. Bernarda’s affairs were sacred. 
Alone she now set out on the nightly round of inspection, 
hitherto carelessly made. It behooved her, as mistress of the 
house, to see that keys were turned, shutters closed, and bars 
drawn, but the fear of marauders had never so much as crossed 
her mind. There was no gold in the house, nor treasure either, 
and what else could such gentry seek ? Nor had it occurred to 
her that Edgeworth’s visits might prove a source of danger to 

1 herself. But was it so ? 

An unexpected conviction now flashed across her mind. Tow- 
ards Edgeworth the portent was surely directed, 


38 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


Over his head was hung the sword of Damocles. The em- 
broidery mistress and her singing-girl were as safe as if the con- 
spirator had never crossed their path ; but the ministers of the 
law were keeping closest watch over him. Perhaps already he 
had forfeited the citizen’s right to be at large. Any day, any 
hour, he might find himself within prison walls, duress, suffering, 
and ignominy his portion for the remainder of his days. 

To what horrid deed might he not have given his adherence ? 
To what death-warrant universal set his sign-manual ? 

He should be forthwith warned of his peril, and then it 
would rest with him to contrive his own safety. She deter- 
mined to think no more that night, but to see to her bolts and 
bars, and then go to sleep as if nothing had happened. 

To Bernarda, as to many other women in the flower of life 
and gifted with a splendid physique, bodily fear was unknown. 
She was quite ready to encounter midnight prowlers, should any 
lurk within her precincts. 

The day had been one of snow-storm, with driving gusts, 
but the night was starlit and calm. Bernarda, with a fur cloak 
thrown over her negligee, proceeded to inspect the house from 
top to bottom. It was no showy, semi-detached villa, run up 
within recent years by contract, but a solid piece of red-brick 
masonry, perhaps two hundred years old. There are few such 
houses nowadays, and every one, as it falls to the hammer, is 
snapped up by an artist. From an artist, indeed, Bernarda 
leased her own, turning the studio to good account as a work- 
room, and utilizing other nooks and corners not found in brand- 
new constructions. There was a small garden at the back ; 
and who can keep thieves or spies out of a house with a gar- 
den, or, indeed, any house at all ? mused Bernarda, smiling rue- 
fully. The only way to be free from anxiety on this score is 
to have nothing worth stealing or watching. She gave up the 
task as hopeless, and went back to her warm chamber. The 
gas was turned down and the fire burned low, but Marion’s 
golden hair seemed to light up the place. She wore one of 
those simple, childish nightgowns, gathered round the throat 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


39 


by a white ribbon, and over the plain folds fell her short, bright 
curls, as a seraph’s in an old picture. The hair was not en- 
cumberingly long, no mere silken yellow veil, rather a little 
rippling cloud of shifting gold, and no picture could be fairer 
than the purely outlined face thus encircled. A tear still lin- 
gered on the rosy cheek, but there was no other sign of dismay. 
Marion slumbered as if she had been carolling all day long. 
Strange that Bernarda should never have noticed such sudden 
dumbness of her singing-bird ! The child’s sweet, hitherto ir- 
repressible, contralto had stopped on a sudden, leaving her part 
of the house mute as an uninhabited place, and Bernarda had 
taken no heed. As she now, however, bent over the guileless 
sleeper, tears of shame, anguish, and remorse rose to her eyes. 
Not that she especially cared for her blonde, trilling, caressing 
Marion ; she knew that the girl would attach herself as fondly 
to any other employer in a week. A feeling, deeper, intenser 
far than mere liking caused those rare tears to flow. It was 
her passionate sense of justice that had been here outraged. In 
Marion she already saw a victim of that unholy league of which 
Edgeworth boasted himself the moving spirit. By what right 
had he and his associates thus to rob such innocent lives of 
peace and confidingness? For the young are very impres- 
sionable, and Marion might be far more terrified than she 
had ventured to avow. Perhaps years would elapse ere her 
mind recovered its equipoise, and a girl once as fearless 
as any in London would venture to sit alone on a winter 
evening. 

Marion should be sent away next day, Bernarda said. If 
Edgeworth’s presence brought peril with it, then the hazard 
should be her own only. Again and again, and even with more 
distinctness now, that warning voice reached her from afar ; she 
was beginning to realize, although, as yet, but in a dim and un- 
defined way, that she and peace of mind had parted company. 
Waking or sleeping, busy or idle, there was no more security 
for her, no sweet inner sense of safety and repose. It was not 
very likely that she could do Edgeworth much good. He had 


40 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


sought her out too late, as far as his own redemption was con- 
cerned. But if she could not bend the course of his existence, 
how was he already shaping hers? She shuddered as she 
looked into the future, or even glanced so far ahead as the 
morrow. To what dark fate had she surrendered herself in 
promising to marry this man ? Already that flower of hers, 
worn as a token of lost love, seemed no longer a flower of des- 
tiny, but of doom. The death’s-head that Edgeworth’s fancy 
had discerned on its petals recurred to her. Was not this flower 
symbolic, fit love-token for such hands to gather? But no 
guilt had stained them when, years ago, he plucked a pansy for 
his love, and if she kept painful vigils now, it was not for the 
grief he had caused her or the dangers that beset her own path, 
but for the degradation of that generous nature, the perversion 
of that once candid soul. 


Chapter IX. 

THE SHADOW DEEPENS. 

Cheery sunshine, and the bustle of the day, quite restored 
Marion’s spirits, and she begged Bernarda, with tears in her 
eyes, not to send her away. 

“ Let Kitty come for a day or two,” she entreated. “ I am 
so much alone in the evenings now. You used to have me up 
for a little singing every night, till ” — she stopped short, with- 
holding the remainder of the sentence on her lips — “ till Mr. 
Edgeworth began to come ” — “ till winter set in,” she got out 
at last. 

Bernarda frowned, understanding her meaning full well, and, 
after a moment’s thought, consented. Marion w 7 as not the only 
person she had to consider. Her school must be cared for. 
For the sake of her apprentices, one and all, the compromising 
fact of Edgeworth’s presence must be got rid of. She would 
tell him to come no more. 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


41 


When alone, she took out her pocket-diary, and was shocked 
to find how often she had allowed him to come of late. Two 
months had elapsed since that first intrusion on her solitude, 
and now she noted, as she conned her journal, that for exactly 
four weeks he had kept to the allotted day and hour. During 
the fifth week he had come twice — for half an hour’s chat only, 
it was true, yet he had come. During the sixth, he had dropped 
in, as he called it, every other day. Within the last eight days 
his visits numbered seven. 

Bernarda had not a particle of feminine vanity in her com- 
position. Setting sentiment entirely on one side, she could 
easily understand the recreation such intercourse afforded a man 
in Edgeworth’s position. Any other agreeable, sympathetic 
woman living alone, and thus able to devote her leisure to his 
confidences, would have attracted him in the same way. Men, 
no more than women, can exist without homely humdrum friend- 
ships, a domestic audience, a fireside oracle. She did not, there- 
fore, plume herself upon gaining any extraordinary influence 
over him from day to day. To do him some good was within 
the limits of rational hope. To become his conscience she 
dared not aspire. Crimsoning with vexation as the telltale 
diary was put back in its place, she could hardly understand her 
imprudence in the matter of these visits. The head of an ac- 
credited school, the mistress of a score and odd girl-apprentices, 
was bound to show more circumspection. That day, indeed, 
he did not come, but on the next he presented himself earlier 
than usual. The street-door had hardly closed upon the last 
apprentice, and Bernarda was closeted with a client when 
he arrived. Ten minutes elapsed before she could join him. 
He put down his hat at the sight of her, with an air of re- 
lief. 

“At last!” he exclaimed, impatiently. “I thought your 
aesthetic patron would never take his departure. And I am 
pushed for time to-day,” he added, jealously, and with a touch 
of ill-humor. 

“ Why did you come, then ?” asked Bernarda, coolly. 


42 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


She had entered with a handful of papers, and was now put- 
ting them away. 

“ Why did I come?” he reiterated, in a tart voice, and with 
meeting brows. “ Why should I come except to see you ?” 

She had spoken without looking up. She was a very order- 
ly person, and could not sit down now comfortably to talk to 
him till she had disposed of her papers — a check to be put in 
one drawer of her escritoire, a list of instructions in another, a 
receipt in a third, and so on. She did not pay any attention 
to his rebuke, but, when her task was done, quitted her desk, 
and sat down beside him. 

“ I am glad you did come to-day,” she began. Then glanc- 
ing up, not feeling sure if her moment were opportune, yet de- 
termined to get out at once a piece of intelligence so obnoxious 
to him, she added : “ And it is not because I have pleasant news 
for you. Alas ! quite the contrary. My dear Edgeworth, you 
must leave off coming to see me; your movements are dogged. 
There are spies set upon this house.” She then repeated, word 
for word, Marion’s statement, emphasizing her own implicit re- 
liance on the girl’s good faith. The singing-bird belonged to 
the category of women who scream. A mouse scared her. 
She was brimful of girlish fancifulness, sentiment, and romance. 
But she invariably spoke the truth, or what she believed to be 
the truth. And she was no mystic or visionary ; her mind, as 
much as she had of mind, was sane and poised. 

Then, having delivered herself of her disagreeable duty, Ber- 
narda studied Edgeworth’s face — handsome as it was, no de- 
lightful subject for contemplation just then. Dark passions 
betrayed themselves in every line, yet she felt that something 
darker lay behind. His silence, moreover, seemed ominous. 
He was wont to speak out promptly, impetuously, only too 
ready with thoughts and words always, often pulling himself 
up only just in time on the brink of some imprudent disclosure. 
He now sat like a man fairly checkmated, turning from red to 
pale, with never a syllable at command. 

Bernarda felt sorry for him just then. She had no clew to 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


43 


those angry, disturbing thoughts, but he had evidently received 
a check, and, in the moment of his discomfiture, might be more 
open to impressions. She was moved to utter a tender word, 
to try to get near that lonely, close-shut heart. 

“Dear,” she said, and for a moment she let her hand rest on 
his arm, “you are troubled, and I may not know the reason 
why. Oh, it is hard to live thus near, yet so wide apart.” 

The speech, simple although it was, seemed to electrify him. 
The deadly pallor of a minute before changed to deep red. He 
was overmastered by some new, strong passion other than hate 
and vengeance. Was it pity for the woman he was drawing 
within the toils of his own horrid fate? Could it be remorse 
for worse crimes, overtaking him too late, or yearning for the 
chances of quiet happiness thrown away ? 

“ Do you care for me at all, then, my poor Erna ?” he asked, 
in a strangely measured, reined-in voice, while his eyes rested 
on the beautiful woman whose image had now become a part 
of his daily life. 

For the first time since their coming together Bernarda de- 
termined to show him a little kindness. Up till the present 
moment she had been friendly, sisterly, womanly, but not a re- 
minder of the old clinging fondness had ever betrayed itself in 
look, word, or deed. 

She spoke calmly enough, yet there was something in both 
words and voice that affected Edgeworth strangely — a personal- 
ity, a suggestion of intimacy, an affectionateness, hitherto kept 
in the background. By tacit consent they had avoided two 
topics. The old love-story was never touched upon, and with 
regard to his secret career inviolate silence was ever maintained. 
Of other incidents, adventures, and experiences they talked free- 
ly enough. But as friends, not lovers ; lovers of home and coun- 
try, not conspirators. He evidently found intense relief in pour- 
ing out his grievances — their grievances, as he ever put it — to 
her. The means to be taken in order to redress them were dis- 
creetly and rigidly ignored. Thus they led double lives. She 
kept to herself all that abhorrence of his convictions — those wild 


44 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


yet ardent hopes of shaking them. Edgeworth exercised equal 
self-control, delicately ignoring the very words that might 
shock or horrify her. Except for these reservations their inter- 
course had been open and confidential enough. They both 
read certain books, took keen interest in many topics, had musi- 
cal and dramatic tastes in common. Here, then, was plenty 
of scope for the fireside talk of two. 

“ Do I care for you ?” Bernarda now said, very gently. 
“ What a question !” Then, with a low, sad laugh : “ Women 
may care for the men they marry in so many different ways. 
We were young together — that is a tie always; and we love 
the same things — that is a still stronger tie.” She added, with 
a look almost of tenderness, “ I am alone in the world, and so 
are you. We should both be good to each other, I am sure.” 

Did her words move him at all? She hardly hoped it, yet 
he looked subdued and crestfallen. She knew not how it was ; 
she did not in the least intend to break her compact. A word 
of protest would out. 

“ We must remain in one sense strangers to each other; but 
I cannot help hoping — maybe against hope — that some day 
you will think as I do. Oh!” cried she, surrendering herself to 
a moment of noble enthusiasm, “ if I could win you even for an 
hour from this dreadful fellowship — ” 

“ You would be ready to pay the penalty ? To fall a martyr 
in our sacred cause, too?” he broke in, greatly excited. u My 
poor girl, have done! Do you know that your life would not 
be safe for a moment if you were suspected of exercising a 
counter-influence upon me ? Listen, then. I am bound to tell 
you the truth. If I am espied upon here, it is not by the 
enemy, but my friends. The foe dreaded here is yourself I” 
Light flashed upon her mind now ; she understood every- 
thing — Marion’s terror, his own consternation. 

“ There is but one thing to do,” he said, fiercely vindictive. 

“ We go our ways as if no lurking villains crawled the earth. 
By Heaven, if so much as a hair of your head were injured, the 
tables might be turned with a vengeance! I am no milksop,to 

1 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


45 


be trifled with ; that I can tell them. But,” here his voice 
changed from stentorian menace to mild suasion, “ do, my dear 
Erna, get this flowery concern off your hands ; bid your giglets 
pack. To the — to the North Pole with your aesthetic patrons, 
and let us be married forthwith. What difference can a few 
weeks sooner or later make to you ?” 

Bernarda had not yet recovered from her surprise. The 
revelation Edgeworth’s words had been to her wrapped the fut- 
ure in still deeper gloom, and lent this coming marriage an 
awful aspect. 

“ Every thing will be altered then,” he went on, growing more 
and more persuasive ; “ as my wife, you will cease to be an ob- 
ject of suspicion. You need not fear for your personal safety 
in the future.” 

“Am I so craven-spirited as to think of myself?” broke in 
Bernarda, with proud scorn. To Edgeworth’s thinking, she had 
never looked so superb. “ No, indeed ; personal safety, as you 
call it, is the last guarantee I should ask,” she went on quickly 
and agitatedly, unable to bear this scene any longer. “ Have 
everything your own way. The holidays begin in three weeks. 
Only stay away till then and all else shall be as you wish.” 

“Will you really marry me this day three weeks?” he said, 
with an exultation in his voice Bernarda was too agitated to 
notice. 

“ Have I not said it, dear Edgeworth ?” she said, almost petu- 
lantly ; “ only leave me now. Send me a line. I will meet 
you on Sunday afternoon in the park, or anywhere. Make 
your rendezvous, only begone now.” 

But the more anxious she was to have him gone the less in- 
clined he seemed to take his departure. His almost lover-like 
eagerness seemed a cruel irony of fate in her eyes. Why this 
veneer of tenderness, this simulation of deeper feeling than any 
that existed ? 

“ Well,” he said, rising at last, “ since you drive me from 
your doors, go I must. This day three weeks, remember. 
Good-bye, then !” 


46 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


He advanced as if to kiss her, but Bernarda affected not to 
perceive the movement. She could bear his indifference, his 
familiarity no longer shocked her, his easy unreserve had be- 
come a matter of course; but the slightest approach to fond- 
ness, the merest term of endearment, the least little reminder 
of the lover of old days, seemed to freeze her into marble. Her 
first impulse was to ignore Edgeworth’s initiative and let him 
go away, as usual, with an ordinary hand-clasp. Then, mindful 
of her intention to be kind to him, to win him if she could, 
suddenly overwhelmed by the stern necessity she was under of 
not consulting her own feelings at all, only thinking of him, 
and how she might best gain what affection he had to give, 
she moved a step forward and gave the kiss he had just now 
solicited in vain. 

“ We will, at least, try to care for each other,” he murmured, 
and, without a word more, hurried away, as discomposed and 
ill at ease as herself. 

“We will try to care for each other!” The speech kept 
ringing in Bernarda’s ears with the bitter irony of many an- 
other. Edgeworth had no intention to wound ; she felt sure, 
on the contrary, that he was always trying to soothe and grat- 
ify her. But it was just such utterances as these that made 
her realize her position. He had never really cared for her, 
but she had accorded him the one passionate love of a life, and 
just because he could not understand the nature of deep, abid- 
ing affection at all, he was perpetually wounding her suscepti- 
bilities now. 

All this she must bear, and she was schooling herself every 
day into fitness for the future she had accepted. She had said 
to herself, when accepting it, that if Edgeworth’s love for her 
had been a delusion, her own was dead. But was it so ? 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


47 


Chapter X. 

REVELATIONS. 

But Edgeworth came as usual, and Bernarda in turn grew 
reckless. A kind of blind fatalism took possession of her. 
Instead of trying to reason him out of his bravado, she seemed 
bent on playing into his hands and those of his associates. 
The lame girl had been sent for to keep Marion company ; the 
apprentices informed that the school would close when the 
Christmas holidays began ; Marion, to her great joy, was to 
remain with her mistress, and although the discreet little maiden 
never opened her lips on the subject, she felt sure of what was 
going to happen. Her mistress was about to marry Mr. Edge- 
worth. Bernarda shuddered as she saw herself forced to believe 
that some fearful climax in his career must be at hand. Such 
close watch set on Edgeworth’s movements could only mean 
one thing. Even Edgeworth, the lavish, the audacious, the 
unscrupulous Edgeworth, whose life, fortune, and good report 
were freely staked on this desperate game, even he had become 
a possible renegade in the eyes of his associates. There are 
limits to fanaticism, and before a catastrophe without precedent 
Edgeworth himself might quail. 

She could but suspect then, that unwelcomely, although in- 
evitably, the period fixed upon for their marriage just tallied 
with an important stage in his career of conspirator. For other 
reasons he had hurried on events, and now stood, not only on 
the point of marriage, but the brink of crime. His followers 
feared to lose him when he was most needed. Apprehensions 
were evidently entertained that this lady he visited so often 
might seduce him from his principles. His restlessness, his 
unreasonableness in coming too often, and his craving for her 


48 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


company she could only interpret this way. Matters had come 
to a climax since their meeting'. “ Ah,” thought Bcrnarda, “ had 
she not deceived herself from the beginning, and taken refuge 
in an illusory indifference, things would have been much easier 
now.” Without love there is no pain. The horrible suspicions 
in her mind made her shrink appalled at the step she was about 
to take, and then came a voluntary surrendering to a wild hope, 
almost akin to despair. She would marry him, and try to save 
him, even if her own life paid the forfeit. What value had 
life for her now? 

He came as usual, and she set herself deliberately to the task 
of reaching that apparently cold heart, and influencing, no 
matter how slightly, that impulsive, yet, as it seemed, implaca- 
ble nature ; anyhow, harm she could never do him. The three 
weeks were diminished by one, when Edgeworth made a second 
and most unlooked-for visit on the same afternoon. 

They had already taken tea together out of the shamrock 
cups, chatting after the prosaic yet intimate fashion of two 
friends about to set up a fireside partnership. Cooks, cuisine, 
and china — how often have not such topics formed the pleas- 
antest part of courtship ! For even in the heyday of romance, 
lovemaking in itself very soon comes to an end. The tune will 
be repeated to-morrow and to-morrow ; familiarity with every 
note makes it come to an end so much quicker than at first. 
The variations are gradually left out. 

What was her astonishment to hear Edgeworth’s ring an 
hour or two after the animated tea they had just taken to- 
gether. She had sent her two maidens to a penny-reading 
close by, and, when she heard a disturbing ring at the front 
door, no more expected him than if he had been on the other 
side of the Atlantic. Truth to tell, she wanted no visitors just 
then. She was as busy as any other woman before transport- 
ing her wardrobe to a man’s domicile, and was counting her 
silk stockings ! 

“ Let me in, please. For five minutes — no more,” looking 
the reverse of sentimental or ingratiating. “ Don’t keep the 
door open an inch, as if I were a wild beast.” 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


49 


Bernarda laughed good-humoredly aud let him in, gently 
closing the door after her intruder. She was accustomed to 
hear him use strong language. It amused her, when he touched 
no patriotic theme. 

“ My dearest Edgeworth/’ she cried, as soon as they were in 
her little parlor, “ what is the matter?” 

She perceived now that it was no time for persiflage or genial 
talk. His face was that of a close-driven, all but desperate, 
man. He put down hat and stick, flung aside cloak and muf- 
fler, and burst forth in an aggressive voice : 

“ Do not say a word, Erna. Let me tell you that before- 
hand. I can listen to no objections or demurs. We must be 
married a week sooner than I said.” 

He looked at her almost as if he invited the remonstrance 
just now forbidden. Her passiveness offered no target for his 
weapons. It was evident that the handful of arrows must be 
spent, however aimlessly. 

“ You ask a dozen questions without once opening your lips,” 
he went on. u Why this danger? why any hurry? why this? 
why that? your face says. You are thinking of your school- 
girls, your patrons, and all the rest of it — what does it all sig- 
nify a straw ? But our marriage is serious.” 

Bernarda tried to soothe him, and smile away his irritation. 

“ Of course it is serious,” she said. “ In the matter of a date 
I will not gainsay you. Have everything your own way.” 
She looked at him fondly, archly, insinuatingly. “ Only I 
must say, dear, that you disarrange me not a little. I have all 
kinds of business to settle. Was ever a woman married except 
in the best gown she could afford? Mine I have yet to buy. 
Now, a week sooner or later, what conceivable difference can 
it make to you?” 

Her playfulness did not soothe him this time. 

“ I knew what you would say,” he answered, with extreme 
moroseness. “ But I tell you ” — here he fixed on her a look so 
full of dark significance that her animation vanished in a mo- 
ment; she divined what was coming, and awaited it, trein- 


50 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


bling with apprehension — “ a week sooner or later may make 
all the difference in the world to me.” He added, grimly ironic, 
“Do insurance companies grant policies on such lives as mine? 
Answer that question.” 

Her expression had changed from dreadful suspense to hor- 
rid certitude. She knew what he meant right well. It was 
no moment for veiled speeches and random words, for common 
kindness or meaningless endearment. The fearful thought 
flashed across her mind that this misguided, adored Edgeworth 
might be hers for a brief space only. Perhaps already he was 
a doomed man. 

Shaken with emotion, no longer thinking of herself at all, or 
of her womanly pride, thinking only of him and of the twofold 
peril he was evidently in — peril of life and limb, peril of 
iniquity past human, perhaps Divine, forgiveness — she now 
gathered him for a moment to her arms, her cheek, her lips. 

“Oh,” she cried, “I love you, Edgeworth! Will you break 
my heart, and leave me desolate?” 

His acerbity and vindictiveness were gone now. Bernarda 
was not astonished at thus far being able to soften him. But 
he was stirred by some new, unaccountable emotion. There 
were tears on his cheek and in his voice as he next spoke. 

“ I ought not to sacrifice you,” he began. “ But, my Erna, 
my love, I cannot give you up. I never cared for you in the 
old days. You were a careless girl, and I a wild, roaming lad. 
Things are altered with us now. You are the first woman I 
could become a coward for. Don’t contradict. It is cowardly 
to drag you down with me.” 

Bernarda had sunk to a low stool at his side, and, kneeling 
on it, clasped both hands about his arm. 

No need for her to speak; her secret was out already, and 
in that first trembling surprise following his it seemed to her 
as if there was nothing more left for either to say at all. And 
what else was left but love and pain — a fleeting joy and unend- 
ing retributive misery ? But the joy made itself felt in both 
hearts, nevertheless. 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


51 


“Why were we both so blind? Or, perhaps, like myself, 
you found this out on a sudden,” he said, compelling her for a 
moment to look at him. After that long, long look, he went 
on, in rapid, painfully eager accents, as if, perhaps, even this 
brief interview might be suddenly cut short, and his last chance 
of speaking out gone forever: “ A week, sweetheart, will make 
you as much my wife as a golden jubilee. You will bear my 
name — be in a position to vindicate it, if needs be. All that 
I have will be yours. No one then can contest my will,” with 
a sardonic laugh, “ on the plea that I am a madman !” 

Then, like herself, swayed by overmastering passion, for one 
intense moment alive to nothing else but the conviction that 
he was hers as. much as any human being can be another’s by 
virtue of instinctive attraction, closest sympathy, affection, 
love — call it what we will — he added wildly : 

“ One kiss from you, my dear — a wife’s kiss, you know — 
and come dark doom when it will ! Erna, Erna, you cannot 
save me ! You cannot follow me on my dark way ! For a 
week, a day, an hour we may belong to each other. Perhaps 
no more. Only love me, then, this little while !” 


Chapter NI. 
wedded. 

It never occurred to Bernarda that, because her marriage was 
to take place under extraordinary circumstances, and because 
she was no longer in the rosebud stage of existence, she should 
discard the beautiful and symbolic dress expected of brides. 
She was about to give herself, in all her whiteness of soul, to 
the man she adored, and to celebrate an act is solemn and fateful 
always, but doubly, trebly so in her own case. She trembled as 
she glanced towards the future. Into the depths of Edge- 
worth’s soul she dared not look. But he loved her; he was 
going to become her husband. Mixed with the wild exultation 


52 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


his confession had brought her, a ray of hope, therefore, gilded 
her marriage-day. So she dressed herself in the most perfect and 
appropriate gown to be had, and marvellously did it heighten 
her mature, stately beauty. She felt half inclined to lay aside 
the flower she had worn all these years ; the pansy could no 
longer have the same significance, she said, since Edgeworth 
loved her. As far as his affection was concerned, he had made 
reparation, and healed the wounds made long years ago ; yet, 
partly from habit and partly from a strange feeling that now 
possessed her — a conviction, presentiment, she knew not by 
what name to call it — that his favorite flower was still connect- 
ed, in some occult way, with her destiny, she decided to wear 
it still. There were magnificent roses of her bridegroom’s send- 
ing, and a myrtle-wreath for her dark hair; but discarded heart’s- 
ease was finally fastened to the corsage of her white satin dress. 
A striking ornament it made there, looking more like a jewelled 
flower than a blossom destined to fade in an hour. It was one 
of those large, gorgeous heart’s-ease, of deepest, ruddiest crim- 
son, with deeper markings still of purple-black ; and, the flower 
fastened, her toilet was done. AYhat a bride to dazzle the eyes 
of expectant bridegroom! Bernarda now. dismissed Marion 
and the lame girl, and awaited Edgeworth’s coming, alone. 
She clasped her hands, and breathed a long, silent prayer, 
that shaped itself into a vow. Come what might, dark days 
of shame, misery, and separation ; let even the anguish of 
estrangement do its worst ; she would never surrender 
conscience to her husband’s guidance. If she could not 
rescue him, at least he should never drag her down to per- 
dition. 

But could she not now save him ? He loved her. What 
influence, as a wife, might she not exercise now ? In spite of 
himself he might be rescued from the last infamy. 

On a sudden she heard his voice, and, gathering up gloves 
and roses, met him in the outer room. 

In the first moment of charmed surprise Edgeworth did not 
so much as open his lips, but never eloquence expressed so much. 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


53 


He was dumfounded, dazzled, by her superb appearance, and 
she saw it. Such silence was sweetest flattery. 

“Was ever any mortal satisfied?” he said at last. “You 
have dressed for me, and I would not for worlds have it other- 
wise. Yet I am dissatisfied because I cannot parade you before 
all the world.” 

His face beamed as he added, in an undertone, 

“Ah ! if those dreams come true you will never lend ear to 1 
It might bring about right. There would be found parts for 
such women as you to play, my queen.” 

Bernarda smiled at him, for the life of her unable to resist 
a sarcasm. 

“ And for men like you. But I would rather be your wife 
than your subject, my poor, wrong-headed Edgeworth.” 

“ And I would rather be your husband than my country’s 
king,” he added. 

Then came the singing-girl, to say that Bernarda’s witnesses 
— a favorite pupil and her father — had arrived, and the tete-a-tete 
was interrupted for an hour or two, till all was over, and Edge- 
worth Edgeworth and Bernarda Burke had been declared hus- 
band and wife in due form. 

“ A week ! a week ! why must we go back at the end of a 
week?” Bernarda said, playfully, after two or three days’ honey- 
moon in a quiet spot by the sea. “ Is it worth while to be 
married for so short a holiday as that ?” 

Edgeworth retorted in the same sportive vein, although she 
saw that such questions disturbed him. 

“Must, then, a premium be put upon marriage? I always 
thought the contrary, and that when folks were in love they would 
go to the galleys for the sake of being united to each other !” 

Be did not, however, hold out any prospect of extending the 
allotted seven days, and Bernarda forbore to ask questions. 
She saw that he had made up his mind to live desperately, 
feverishly, in the present moment, not daring to look a single 
hour beyond. 


54 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


Chapter XII. 

HEART TO HEART LAID BARE. 

Five days glided by uneventfully, but on the sixth the crisis 
came. Bernarda had retired to rest early, leaving Edgeworth 
busy with letter-writing. 

“You need rest, I am sure,” he said, as, coming behind him, 
she dropped a kiss on his shaggy poll and murmured a sleepy 
good-night. “ Sleep away, then, and to-morrow one more gal- 
lop across the downs.” 

There was nothing unusual about his look or manner as he 
said this, and nothing had occurred during the day to give her 
any fresh uneasiness. They were walking on the edge of a 
precipice. She knew that well enough, but familiarity with the 
position made it seem less terrible. 

What was her astonishment, then, on waking long after mid- 
night, to find that Edgeworth had never gone to bed at all ! 
It was just this sort of catastrophe she most dreaded. Some 
day or other, without warning, her husband would mysteriously 
disappear, and the end would be bitterest sorrow and ignominy, 
her portion to bear alone. Throwing on a crimson dressing- 
gown, warmly wadded, she stole noiselessly towards the inner 
room, where she had left him a few hours before, and, gently 
opening the folding doors, looked in. The fire was out, and 
the gas turned down, but a wax-light, low in the socket, suffi- 
ciently lighted up Edgeworth’s dejected figure. He was not 
writing, only thinking, and the nature of his thoughts beto- 
kened itself in his attitude. He looked like a man whose moral 
and physical forces are spent, and who, for a moment, yields him- 
self unresisting to the grip of evil fortune. No remorse did 
the shrinking Bernarda read in his pale, rigid features; only 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


55 


misery and despair. She had left a night-light burning in 
their bedchamber, but the feeble flame did not disturb him, nei- 
ther did her entrance. As she now stood by the partially opened 
folding-door she hesitated whether to speak to him or no. For 
the first time she saw an expression in his countenance that 
inspired a feeling worse than fear. It was a face she did not 
know ! To the wife, adoring and adored, the husband’s look 
had become on a sudden as that of a stranger. 

Had he noticed her intrusion ? Was her presence unbeara- 
ble to him ? As she stood thus debating within herself she 
caught sight of his travelling-valise and other preparations for 
a journey. In a moment light flashed upon her mind, and she 
understood full well what these secret preparations for depart- 
ure must mean. He had all along pledged himself to take part 
in some dreadful deed, and was now finally called upon to fulfil 
his word. Or perhaps some horrid sortition had fallen to his 
name, and he was singled out by chance, of all his confederates, 
to be the perpetrator of some unparalleled crime. 

The sense of horror and the presentiment of approaching 
separation, separation of a nature too awful to dwell upon, was 
more than she could bear. Now, if ever, heart must be laid 
bare to heart. Now, or perhaps never, so long as they both 
should live, they must get to the very depths of each other’s 
nature. Friendship, with its pleasant converse; love, with its 
sweet, inevitable familiarity, had brought them very near to- 
gether. As yet soul had not spoken to soul. Each had kept 
back one self from the other. There was a side of her charac- 
ter he did not know, while, in a certain sense, even the adoring 
husband was a stranger to her. 

“ You would, then, leave me without a word? Is your wife 
such a coward that she could not bear a last farewell ?” 

She put her arms about him now, and added, in accents 
more pathetic and penetrating still, 

“ For a farewell is in store for us, I am sure. Oh, speak to 
me! Your face is turned to stone; yet it is the same Edge- 
worth, my Edgeworth, and I am innocent of blame.” 


56 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


He smiled as he accepted the caress, but what a smile ! Her 
heart sank within her, yet she remained mistress of herself. 

“ You innocent !” he murmured, in a low, crushed voice. 
u What are you dreaming* of? Have you not made me fond 
of you?” 

“ I have never forfeited my word,” Bernarda answered, 
grown suddenly as white and rigid as himself. “ My heart is 
yours — to break if you will.” 

“You have hoped, all the same, to win me and retain me. 
You poor, good woman,” he said. “ Why did I marry you?” 

Bernarda was kneeling now beside him. She fancied he was 
weeping, and in the feeling of helpless, almost childish, despair 
that came over her, only one desperate hope seemed there to 
clutch at. 

“ There is the sea,” she whispered. As she spoke she held 
up one hand, and motioned to him to hearken to the waves 
beating against the shore. 

“ Beyond it, somewhere in the wide world, we might surely 
find a home,” she went on, whispering eagerly in his ear. 
“There is no device I would not stoop to, to free you from 
these toils — disguise, anything. You are rich, and money can 
do so much ! A tiny boat would take us across this narrow 
strait. You have friends in happy France and so have I. Let 
us go, and let us live harmlessly for each other there.” 

She clung to his knees, the proud woman for once pleading 
for herself. It was him, her love, her husband, above all, she 
fain would save now. She had not realized before what a ne- 
cessity his presence and his affection had become to her. Only 
to have him always ! That low, agonized prayer, in whispers, 
told Edgeworth all. 

There was not .a vestige of hopefulness in the voice with 
which he answered her. He spoke calmly, but it was evident 
that his collectedness was costing him a tremendous effort. 

“ I cannot hide myself if I would. No loophole of escape 
anywhere, and now I cling to life and liberty because I love 
you. God in heaven, how happy we might have been ! And 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


57 


I am no villain born. I have a heart for natural affection and 
innocent pleasure, like other men. A fireside with you, a child 
to call after its mother — ” 

He paused for a moment, as if to dwell on the indescribably 
sweet, unreachable picture. Then, wholly unmanned, he went 
on rapidly, as if he must make an end. 

“These things make a man babyish — satanic; look you, 
they put a demon or a poltroon into him. I was about to 
steal away because I dared not bid you farewell, and because — 
because — but no matter. Listen, wife ; you will know nothing 
of my doings for some days, perhaps weeks, to come. Go 
back to your own home till I give you a sign. For indeed and 
indeed, you must let me go,” he added, gently, as he sought to 
put her away from him. “ Were I to turn renegade now we 
should hardly be any more sure of happiness. Too late, love ! 
love, too late !” 

The word renegade had fallen from his lips, not her own. 
Bernarda shook off the lethargy of despair and sprang to her 
feet. He had thrown down the gauntlet ; it was for her to ac- 
cept the challenge. 

“ Happiness!” she cried. “ Do we, then, so little understand 
each other still ? Is it for the sake of mere happiness I would 
have you break your word? Oh, Edgeworth, pardon, if for 
one wild moment I counselled flight. The thought of separa- 
tion was more than I could bear. But now, when you are 
leaving me, and your looks, words, and some dim foreboding 
within tell me it is forever, I cannot think of ourselves or hap- 
piness at all. I think of your honor, the crimes with which 
you are about to pollute your soul, the stain, never to be 
washed out, with which you are about to sully your name. Do 
I not bear that name? May there not be — But I will not' 
think of the future, only of yourself. Is there not something 
that should stand before love, before country ? You cannot 
disarm conscience. And you are one of the leaders. Your de- 
fection on moral grounds would be as an inner voice speaking 
to many.” 


58 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


She stood confronting him in her august appeal ; no tears in 
the beautiful eyes now, no fond tremblings of the sweet voice, 
no feminine beatings of the heart. It was not the woman ap- 
pealing to the beloved, not the wife trying blandishments with 
her husband, but one human heart laid bare to another, soul 
speaking to soul. 

He answered, in a cowed, almost sullen, voice, 

“ You speak as if you knew all !” 

Those little words filled Bernarda’s mind with fresh and 
more terrible apprehension. No amount of details or explana- 
tion could have made her realize so fully the awfulness of his 
position, and it was the awfulness from a moral point of view 
she only thought of now. On the consequences of his deeds 
to herself and to him she did not dwell, only on their intrinsic 
blackness and the misery they would entail on others. 

.“Oh!” she said, throwing all her passion and nearly spent 
forces into one agonized supplication more, reckless now of 
nothing but the chance of rescuing him from the last infamy, 
“ we are at the close of the year, the year that has brought us 
together. At least let this one end without crime.” 

He laughed bitterly. 

“A week or two of delay. What good could come of it? 
But harm might — to ourselves, I mean.” 

“ Do not let us think of ourselves,” Bernarda said, clinging 
to him, no longer a monitor, a conscience, but his love, his 
own fond wife, for one moment more. “ Think of the effect 
your hesitation might have on others. You draw back ap- 
palled, you who are ready to lay down your life for this cause. 
Would not others stop short in horror? and you would have 
averted crime and misery. Your memory would be perpet- 
ually sweet to me, if I survive you, and if not, you would at 
least feel that you had not broken my heart,” she said, still 
clinging to him in an abandonment of love and despair. “ I 
feel as if, however these things turn out, we are not to be 
together long. It is this that makes it horrible to me to lose 
you now, bent on what fearful deed I dare not ask, leaving me 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


59 


already widowed. For wickedness drives out love. I should 
learn, perhaps, to loathe you, against my will. The Edgeworth 
I loved would seem dead; the Edgeworth stained with crime 
— how could I let him come near me? Is it not something, 
then, to keep you, if only for a little week, seven whole days ? 
You love me ! You consent !” 

“ To what ? ” said Edgeworth, hoarsely, and no longer master 
of himself. “ Yet,” he murmured, as he held her in his arms, 
speaking not to her, but to himself, “ I am too powerful, too 
much of a force, too rich ! None of them would dare to raise 
a finger against me or mine. And a man has surely a right to 
two weeks’ truce after his wedding! I was against this time, 
too, from the first. My demur now will not occasion surprise. 
Why disturb the world’s peace at Christmas — ” 

Bernarda listened, in a tumult of wild hopes, yet with a 
reined-in abhorrence. Black and frightful the chasm that 
Edgeworth’s words had opened to her. 

“We are rich,” he went on, gloating over the thought with 
almost savage exultation. “ How good to have money, my 
Erna ! Money may purchase this reprieve. But go back to 
bed now and try to sleep. There are things not to be put into 
a letter, parleyings not to be intrusted to the post, you under- 
stand. I must therefore make this journey all the same.” 

“ But not alone,” replied Bernarda. 


Chapter XIII. 

THE death’s HEAD IN THE FLOWER. 

It was Bernarda’s first night under her husband’s roof. 
They had not gone straight home; hardly fair to the ser- 
vants thus to take them by surprise, he said, and he wished 
her impression to be a pleasant one. So they put up at an inn 
for two days, on the third going to Edgeworth’s house, to find 
servants smiling a welcome, lights blazing, flowers in profusion, 


60 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


all things wearing a gala look, in honor of the bride. During 
the last two days the pair had seen very little of each other, 
Edgeworth only once alluding to the business in hand. 

“ The black flag has been hauled down for a while,” was all he 
said, and he said it with an evident desire not to be questioned. 

Bernarda was undressing, then, on that first night in her 
new home, when her attention was suddenly arrested by an 
object, curious, even phenomenal, that must have been placed 
by unknown hands on her dressing-table during dinner-time. 

It was an artificial flower, a magnificent pansy, in the little 
crystal vase that had held the flower she now wore. At first 
the uncommon size and splendor of the heart’s-ease excited 
admiration only, and she bent over it with a cry of delight and 
amazement. But as she gazed and gazed, fascinated, yet re- 
pelled, by something abnormal in its appearance she could not 
explain, rapture was turned to dismay, till she drew back, 
horror-stricken ! It was no flower at all that she gazed on, but 
a death’s-head in miniature. The imitation w T as, indeed, a 
miracle of the artificer’s skill in wax; most ingeniously had 
the flower-head been copied, yet so far modified both in form 
and color as nicely to represent, on a reduced scale, a human 
skull. The petals were of grayish white, and the markings, 
representing the hollows, in dark brown, the whole at first sight 
looking a mere scientific toy, in its exquisite modelling and 
accurately laid-on tints. But it became a ghastly emblem in 
Bernarda’s eyes as she turned to it again and again. The most 
innocent things may become horrible when turned into sym- 
bols, and this mimic death’s-head in wax — a child might have 
unconsciously toyed with — gradually shut out every cheerful 
image from her mind. She soon saw nothing else in the room ! 
This symbolic flower, surreptitiously placed in the chamber of 
Edgeworth’s bride on her home-coming, did make her cheeks 
blanch and her limbs tremble. 

What else could it be but a warning? and in those first 
moments of alarm and foreboding she thought only of her 
husband. It was his safety, his life, she now saw threat- 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


61 


ened. The defaulter, the waverer, the recalcitrant, was already 
a doomed man ! 

When she could collect her thoughts a little the omen wore 
a wholly different aspect, and she could but feel convinced that 
it was placed there as a threat to herself. Edgeworth might 
be regarded as a possible renegade by his followers, but on 
whom would their vengeance naturally fall ? Not on the leader, 
rather on the wife, who was the cause of his apostasy. Rene- 
gade he was not yet, perhaps he might never be. Bernarda 
dared not count upon her power over him so far. Never- 
theless he had already drawn back once, and the threat was 
meant in this wise : she must cease to influence her husband, 
or she would be called upon to pay the last forfeit. Misinter- 
pretation of the fact was impossible. There, symbolized, it 
was true, by a flower, yet evidently intended to symbolize, the 
price to be paid for her husband’s redemption. She might 
save him or try to save him, if she would, but her own life 
must be yielded in exchange. Her first impulse was to carry 
the hideous travesty to Edgeworth and tell him all. But she 
hesitated, in painful conflict. She could not thus bear to over- 
shadow his joy in this home-coming; for joy it evidently was 
to him, in spite of the dark, troubled thoughts that ever and 
anon came to cloud it. There was something odious, moreover, 
in the notion of having to confess to a feeling of insecurity 
under his roof. She dreaded the storm of vindictive passion 
such a revelation would be sure to call forth. 

Yet she hesitated. What if any harm should happen to her, 
Edgeworth being unwarned? Would he ever forgive her? 
Would she be able to forgive herself? On a sudden she heard 
his footstep on the stairs, and seizing the hateful thing, buried 
it, shattered to twenty fragments, under the smouldering ashes. 

“ You look ruffled,” Edgeworth said, coming in. “ Has any- 
thing vexed you ?” 

She bent low over the tiny vase in which she was now placing 
the flower she had worn at dinner, a gorgeous heart’s-ease of 
velvety purple starred with deep gold. 


62 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


“Your own imagination is to blame,” she said, with forced 
gayety. “ Why did you ever make me see a death’s-head in 
my favorite flower? Just before you came in I could see one 
distinctly. The illusion is gone now.” 

Edgeworth frowned ; the thought struck him that some in- 
attention on the part of his household might have annoyed her. 
The fire had been allowed to burn low ; he stooped to make 
it up. 

“ Marion should be here, anyhow,” he said, without a suspi- 
cion of the truth. The notion, it was clear, had never occurred 
to him that anything of this kind could have happened in his 
house. 

“ I did not want Marion. It is good to be alone sometimes,” 
Bernarda answered, not having yet recovered herself. “Go 
down-stairs and smoke your cigar, dear Edgeworth. Indeed, I 
do not want you now.” 

He had come to search for cigars in the adjoining room, and 
now left her, to reopen the door a moment after. Stealing up 
to the white-draped, dreamy figure by the fireplace, he bent 
down and whispered, 

“ You have no regrets ?” 

“Oh, leave me, dear,” she cried. 14 Regrets, regrets ! Turn 
blackguard, drink yourself into a sot, kill me with ill-usage, and 
I should have no regrets. Only leave me now.” 

A word as passionate he had also to say. 

“ The very walls must not hear me,” he said, speaking under 
his breath. “ Yet I must speak. Listen, love. You will never 
change me. But a taste of happiness has made me greedy. This 
settling down is a mere blind, a pretence. Hold yourself therefore 
in readiness for a sudden start. Three months of my life at 
least you shall have, you w T ho are my life indeed.” He vanished, 
and with these terribly vehement words the scales fell from the 
wife’s eyes. Now, for the first time, she read her husband’s 
inmost soul. 

A wild clutching after happiness and a desire to soothe her 
so far as to make such compromise possible, these, then, were the 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


63 


reasons that actuated him now, rather than any hesitation on 
moral grounds. He could exult in the thought of a delicious 
holiday with her in some sweet southern land, a honeymoon in- 
definitely prolonged, while deliberately resolved to return to 
r his former career, and in one sense — that the deepest — live apart 
from her forever. This respite was to be a respite from deeds 
of violence and crime, a mere treve de Dieu he was willing to 
sign for her sake. She could deceive herself no longer. Their 
love for each other could never save him, but in one way. 
What if the overmastering joy were to be turned to bitterest 
anguish? What if the next victim singled out by the dark 
Vehmgericht to which he belonged should be his love, his wife? 
Would he not quail then? Would he not refuse to move an- 
other step in the path he had hitherto followed so relentlessly ? 
Awful as were these thoughts — Edgeworth desolate, Edge- 
worth frenzied with grief — they were far more endurable to her 
than those suggested by his tumultuously joyous words — hap- 
piness, sunshine, sweetest companionship — while conscience slept. 
No! welcome, a thousand times welcome, the death’s-head, 
with its moral pointed at her, thought the pale, haughty Ber- 
narda, as she braced herself up to tremendous self-control and 
a silence nothing should permit her to break. 

Edgeworth, blindly clutching after careless love and joy, 
should be allowed to go his own way. She would never point 
out the hidden danger. He should never know that this tem- 
porary lapse, this apparent dereliction, on his part was to be 
avenged in the person of his wife. Death, for Bernarda, had 
few terrors ; life, fewer seductions still. While a vestige of hope 
had remained to her of checking her husband’s awful career, 
life was very precious to her for his sake. When it became 
plain past doubt that love to her meant one thing, to him an- 
other; that the affection he had to give her had no soul in it at 
all, since he thought to love and be loved, yet could live unwor- 
thily, then she had no refuge to fly to but the desperate hope 
of saving him through suffering. 

Marion’s presence came as a relief to these agonized thoughts. 


64 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


The singing-girl soon appeared, beaming with happiness ; no 
daintier, fairer Abigail imaginable than the blonde, rosy Marion, 
in her new pink gown and coquettish white muslin apron. 

“ Shall you be happy, think you ?” asked her mistress. “ Are 
your fellow-servants good people ?” 

“ So good,” said the girl, kissing a fold of Bernarda’ s dress- 
ing-gown. h ‘ We have had quite a party down-stairs in honor 
of your return. Each of us had leave to invite a friend, that 
made eight, and what with the champagne and the singing, my 
head goes round.” 

“ And who was your friend ?” asked Bernarda. 

“ My tenor, of course,” replied the little maiden, blushing 
to her pretty ears. 

“ Well, Marion must take care of her old mistress,” Bernarda 
said, sadly, and under one pretext and another she retained the 
girl near her till she heard Edgeworth moving in the next 
room. Much as she needed solitude, it seemed unendurable to 
her in the house which was now her home. 


Chapter XIY. 

REDEEMED. 

No more eager or confident figure than Edgeworth’s, as he 
threaded the London streets on. New Year’s day. So far every- 
thing had prospered according to his wishes. He had never 
for a moment hoped to manipulate affairs with such success. 
His absence for a time seemed now comparatively easy, and 
even departure need not be precipitate and secret ; only that he 
preferred ever to act precipitate^ and secretly. In the least 
little thing he preferred not to take the world into his confi- 
dence. None of his household therefore, not even Marion, 
knew that the master and mistress were to start for a foreign 
trip next day. Bernarda did not know it as yet, and the ex- 
travagantly buoyant Edgeworth was hastening home to tell her. 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


65 


He pictured her joy at the news. To be free to live for 
each other for twelve long weeks, three whole months — would 
not Bernarda be almost satisfied then ? Loving him as she did, 
she must be ready to accept such a full measure of happiness, 
and leave the rest for a time. 

To his extreme disconcertion Bernarda was absent with Mar- 
ion, and no one knew anything of her movements. Edge- 
worth’s nature was one that resented checks. He liked, more- 
over, with all a lover’s jealous fondness, to be informed of his 
wife’s movements beforehand. It piqued him that she should 
not tell him exactly where she was to be found, and after what 
manner occupied, at any hour of the day. 

Something, moreover, in her demeanor of late had troubled 
him — a dreaminess, a disposition to brood, a habit she had con- 
tracted of seeming aloof from him when they were together. 
He tried to account for this change in a natural feeling of 
strangeness that might overtake her on first coming to his home. 
Perhaps, although she was far too brave and too proud to give 
utterance to such a sentiment, she felt a certain insecurity under 
his roof. Well, then, for both to get away for a time. 

It was highly characteristic of him that he could thus shake 
off the trammels of self-enforced duty. So much the better, 
or the worse, for his cause, he said, recklessly. Without any 
apparent effort, he could thus make a compromise with gravest 
issues, purchasing a brief spell of happiness, perhaps, from his 
own point of view, at the price of disaster to his country or 
his party’s collapse. 

Only to be free with Bernarda ! To live lazily in some sweet 
place with her for a little while 1 Then they might bid him 
commit what deeds they would. But why this prolonged ab- 
sence from home ? 

After fuming and fretting for an hour, at last it occurred to 
him that, of course, Bernarda had gone to her old home. This 
forthcoming journey had been mooted. She knew that de- 
parture, when it came, would be hurried. She had, of course, 
gone to the school to fetch things she had not brought away 

5 


66 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


with her as yet. Or, perhaps, she had made an appointment 
with her successor there. For the embroidery school was to be 
carried on as before, and Bernarda’s successor was to take pos- 
session after the holidays. 

Feeling that it must be so, yet not quite easy in his mind, 
he waited a little, then determined to go after her at once. 
The way was short, and he knew it so well ! How often, oh, 
how often, he had made it with wild hopes in his heart Ber- 
narda never guessed. Strange, this story of theirs ! To meet 
after such an absence, to come together again after such a sep- 
aration. 

As he hastened up the well-known street his heart bounded 
at the thought of seeing her. She would come out to meet 
him, scold him, satirize him, as of old. They would live over 
again that playful, earnest moment when existence to two be- 
ings is made up half of understanding, half of expectation. 

“ Erna, Erna,” he said, as he let himself in with the latch- 
key, “ what are you hiding yourself for ?” 

Silence reigned throughout the place, but it was plain that 
Bernarda and Marion had been there. On the hall table stood 
the little basket and umbrella of the singing-girl. She had ev- 
idently come in with some shopping and gone out again. 
Two or three packages were also heaped together by the door, 
ready for removal. The pair had been packing up some things 
Bernarda wished to take to her new home, and had now gone 
out for a fly. That was all the mystery. Bernarda had most 
likely overtired herself, and was drowsing on the sofa. Why, 
then, should he feel discomposure, much less consternation? 
A house could hardly be alive with noise if only one person 
were quietly resting in it ! Yet why should Marion thus leave 
her mistress alone in this big, empty, dreary house ? Why did 
Bernarda go there without consulting him ? 

“ Do, my love, wake up. Come, we will have tea out of the 
shamrock cups,” he cried, when, opening the door of the little 
sitting-room, he found all as he had said. 

She had overtired herself with this final settling up of affairs 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


67 


in her old home, and was merely resting on the sofa till Mar- 
ion came. 

Yet she was not wont to look so pale, and that crimson flower 
worn on her heart had a strange aspect in his eyes. He was 
accustomed to her fancy for wearing a pansy, and on first en- 
' tering the dimly lighted room took the bright blotch of purple 
to be a beart’s-ease of unusual brilliance, nothing more. Why, 
then, should it strike sudden terror into his soul? 

He stood for a moment without the power to speak or move. 
Then he rushed forward and fell kneeling by the side of the 
couch, with a horrible imprecation that died away in a despair- 
ing appeal. 

No natural pallor was that blanching Bernarda’s cheeks. No 
pansy she wore on her bosom now. Her flower of predilec- 
tion was indeed a flower of doom, the crimson stain was a stain 
of blood, and the hushed sleep was that from which there is 
no awaking. 

Only one consolatory thought visited the frenzied Edgeworth 
now, as, kneeling by her side, he called upon his dead love again 
and again. In those first moments of crazy grief and blank despair 
he yet noted, with something akin to fierce exultation, that the 
blow had been swiftly, surely dealt. No flitting of the spirit from 
its mortal part could be fleeter than such a death. Bernarda 
had died for him — he understood it all — but without suffering 
or struggle. Never nobler heart struck at with less erring aim ; 

; never stainless soul liberated from its clayey envelope more in- 
stantaneously. 


Conclusion. 

All night long, before the bearing to the tomb, Edgeworth 
kept lonely watch by his wife’s side. They had laid her with 
a certain state in the loftly and spacious workroom over which 
she had presided so long, but what a contrast did it now present 
to the atelier of former days ! Instead of avenues of brilliant 


68 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


exotics and rosy, fair-haired maidens gracefully grouped about 
their embroidery -frames, the place was turned into a black- 
draped mortuary chamber, with one sombre, death-still figure 
kneeling by the coffin. 

On the estrade, Bernarda’s place, a temporary altar had been 
erected, on which wax lights were kept perpetually burning. 
Well did the prostrate Edgeworth harmonize with these funereal 
surroundings. He wore a long mourning cloak wrapped round 
his limbs, and the intense pallor of his complexion served to 
heighten the jetty blackness of his hair and beard. 

How those awful hours passed he knew not. All too short 
were they to the distracted man, who felt, somehow, that 
Bernarda had not, as yet, wholly left him. While he could pas- 
sionately kiss the cold outside of her coffin, he seemed to be near 
her — in mysterious communication with her. But when that 
last desperate consolation was gone — ah ! what would become 
of him then ? There would only be one way of living and bear- 
ing his solitude. He could love no more, but he could hate, 
indeed! Here, and here only, he saw a harbor of refuge. 
What religion, what conviction, what duty, could not do, fierce 
hatred might accomplish. For the sake of avenging Bernarda’s 
death he might find life endurable. 

From these fearful thoughts he was aroused, soon after the 
dawning of the cold, gray, wintry day, by strange, sweet sounds, 
as of girls singing. Almost unearthly sweet fell their strains 
on Edgeworth’s ears, and soon he was to know whence they 
came. Softly the door of the atelier opened, and there appeared 
all Bernarda’s flower maidens, led by Marion, in solemn proces- 
sion. They were dressed in black-and-white, and carried garlands 
of white flowers, which each singer deposited on the coffin as 
they slowly filed by. Then, when the last wreath was placed, 
making a pyramidal heap of white azalea, tuberose, stephanotis, 
pelargonium, jasmine, and camellia, the plaintive, wailing melody 
with which they had been marshalled round the room ceased, * 
and full-throated, clear, and rich was the chant of these girl-chor- 
isters as they stood in a semicircle around their dead mistress. 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


69 


Edgeworth never changed his kneeling attitude by the coffin. 
He did not weep, or show by the moving of a muscle that the 
singing touched him ; immovable as a statue he remained, while 
these young, fair girls, having poured out their grief in a pas- 
sionate threnody, now broke into exultant strains over the joys 
of the beautiful soul, set free from its earthly toils. At first, 
indeed, in the fierce jealousy of his grief, he had felt inclined to 
resent this initiative on Marion’s part, yet the guileless voices and 
looks of the girls disarmed his vindictive mood. They had also 
their little right to love Bernarda too ! The last strain ended, all 
became still, except the low, hushed sobbing of the girls as they 
looked their last adieu before passing out of the room. 

Not yet did Edgeworth weep, albeit the music had touched 
him. It seemed a reproach to his own evil mood. He felt at 
last as if the angels had gone, leaving only a demon wearing 
human shape to keep watch by Bernarda’s bier. The dark man 
trembled before the self-evoked image. How could he stay in 
this august presence, how could he leave it forever, with these 
awful curses on his lips and in his heart? 

“ Erna, love, wife !” he cried at last, as his soul was poured 
out in passionate tears ; “ for thy sake, the wild joy of re- 
venge I had counted on shall never be. Unstained with blood 
this hand I lay upon thy bier. Unstained with blood — I swear 
it — this hand shall ever place immortelles on thy tomb !” 

From that day Edgeworth, the anarchist, the dynamiter, the 
revolutionary, disappeared from the scenes in which he had 
moved a familiar figure, as completely as if he also had been 
struck down by some dark hand. All kinds of surmises and 
rumors got abroad concerning him. Report said that in a 
certain Continental monastery still left undisturbed, one of a 
cowled brotherhood, wedded to perpetual austerities, answered 
to the description of the well-known conspirator. Travellers 
brought word of a physiognomy and accent not to be mistaken 
they had accidentally met with when inspecting one of the cele- 
brated monastic foundations of France. Edgeworth yet lived, 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


VO 

but a life that was a living death. The fanaticism characterizing 
the conspirator now found vent in dire macerations and self-in- 
flicted tortures, recalling the flagellants of the middle ages. His 
fierce, agonized soul sought to forget itself or purge itself in 
bodily suffering. So, at least, asserted some who had known the ^ 
Edgeworth of other days, and declared now that they had recog- 
nized his living phantom in monkish guise. 

Others would have it that he had purchased a vast ranch in 
the wilds of America, and was trying to put out his wild energies 
and splendid physical powers into the adventurous career of a 
ranchman. Here, again, the alleged testimony of eye-witnesses 
was forthcoming. Extraordinary stories were recounted of his 
exploits and prowess. The fiercest suns, the most incredible 
hardships, could not daunt him. He seemed to enjoy a charmed 
life, and to revel in the daily perils tt> which he exposed it. 

Yet a third surmise gained wider acceptance still. It was 
affirmed that the conspirator had never quitted his old haunts 
in Europe at all, but that under various names and disguises he 
contrived to elude alike friend and enemy, and to play a des- 
perate part. No one had been able to identify him in any of 
the European capitals. No one could give a clew to his where- 
abouts. 

That he lived and was close at hand many were ready to 
swear. And if no blood-guiltiness could be attributed to him, 
the part with which he was accredited was yet dark. The plot- 
ter now plotted against his followers, his former creed. When- 
ever some revolutionary enterprise miscarried, or some deep-laid 
scheme was revealed, he was said to be at the bottom of the 
disclosure. The arch-conspirator of former days now lived but 
to frustrate conspiracies ! For the sake of his murdered wife, who 
had endeavored to change his purpose, he had become the dead- 
liest enemy of his old associates. 

One vague rumor more. Bernarda had been laid to rest, not j 
in one of the great cemeteries of the world, but in a quiet grave- ■ 
yard far away from London. She was buried near that old- 
world town, so sweet, so rustic, by the sea, to which he had 


THE FLOWER OF DOOM. 


Vl 


taken her a bride. Certain of the fisher-folk declared that there 
was one night of the year on which a dark figure kept watch 
from sunset till dawn by the grave perpetually planted with 
heart’ s-ease — the grave of the stranger lady whose remains had 
been brought thither not long before. 

True enough, on one grave dotting that green burial-ground 
above the sea bloomed ever Bernarda’s pansy, the Flower of 
Doom ! 


LOYE ANI) MANUSCRIPT. 


A STORY IN TWO PARTS. 


PART I. 


Chapter I. 

Of manuscript the unfortunate Mr. Beauregard had already 
enough and to spare ; but with love, as yet, his business as edi- 
tor seemed to have nought to do. Hate, rather than love, was 
the passion now raging within the breast of this once kindly 
scholar and courteous gentleman, this affable man of the world, 
and chivalrous, though cautious, admirer of beauty and femi- 
nine esprit . Mr. Beauregard sometimes asked himself, indeed, 
if he were not losing mental balance, so apparent was the 
change even to one not given overmuch to introspection, so 
terrible the fits of irritability and depression to which he was 
alternately subject. Yes, he mused, the profession he had un- 
dertaken with such heedless alacrity was a maddening one. 
There could be no other designation for it, and he turned 
grimly and ruefully from the manuscripts piled on the table 
towards the looking-glass. He was not only losing his senses, 
he was growing prematurely old. What had a man under fifty, 
and a bachelor, forsooth, to do with lines of care and silvered 
locks? A year ago Palliser Beauregard would have been as- 
suredly regarded in his prime. Manuscript had outwardly aged 
him by a decade. 

It was early in the day — that is to say, the London day — 
and he eyed the heavily laden table with a desperate resolve to 
disencumber it before nightfall. At any rate, some order should 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


73 

be put into chaos, the utterly hopeless contributions returned 
to their owners, the more promising set aside for further in- 
spection, the acceptable consigned to the printer. He could 
no longer live in this dire confusion, and trembling on the 
verge of precipices. For to his somewhat sensitive and fore- 
boding mind every unopened manuscript contained a viper. 
He had already annoyed, even affronted, so many worthy men, 
so many delightful women, by refusing their manuscripts, that 
he had made more than one deadly enemy and scores of an- 
tagonists ; so, at least, he fancied ; and if things went on as 
they had begun, another year of manuscript would find him 
absolutely without a friend! Mr. Beauregard was not only 
chary of his friendships, he was tender of heart. It pained 
him deeply to have to pen those ingratiating little notes of re- 
fusal, especially if his unknown correspondent happened to be 
a woman. He could not endure the thought of the disillusion 
such missives would cause, not only to the timid aspirant after 
fame and fortune, but to happy and innocent homes. 

Most of all, the numerous packets bearing country postmarks 
had a pathetic interest for him. Those pretty feminine notes 
accompanying the papers, too, so naively confidential, so appeal- 
ing, yet so expostulatory, he could never read without a pang. 
Why did not women occupy their thoughts with love rather 
than manuscript? Why this infatuation for publicity, this in- 
ordinate craving for paper and ink ? The overwrought editor 
felt at times as if his adoration for the other sex were turning 
to positive loathing. The most fascinating, agreeable, and 
friendly women he knew, women he declared himself ready to 
fall in love with at a moment’s notice, might to-morrow send 
him a manuscript. The very postman’s knock made him trem- 
ble from head to foot. Formerly the least nervous man in all 
London, he was becoming a slave to eau-de-cologne, sal vola- 
tile, and the smelling-bottle. 

He had just snatched a brief holiday in the country, think- 
ing to come home braced up for impending trials. But no 
such thing. On the contrary, affairs wore a more overwhelm- 


74 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


ing aspect after this spell of ease, this temporary casting off of 
harness. As the valiant soul of Hector was cowed by the sud- 
den reappearance of Achilles after his eclipse, so Mr. Beau- 
regard, who had boasted to himself of his heroic temper an 
hour or two before, quailed as he came once more face to face 
with the enemy — manuscript. 

The consciousness of a day’s undisturbed leisure before him, 
however, and the comfort imparted by smoking-gown and slip- 
pers, alleviated in some degree the trying nature of his posi- 
tion. So, after a desperate running of his fingers, on which 
sparkled a magnificent diamond ring, through his hair, he set 
courageously to work. 

Mr. Beauregard was not an orderly man ; disorder, indeed, 
must be set down as one of the permissible luxuries of bache- 
lorhood ; nor was he free from a certain absent-mindedness, 
which, perhaps, more than any other circumstance, made the 
business of an editor so irksome to him. He was prone to for- 
get appointments, worse still, to mislay the manuscripts in- 
trusted to his care, and thus — with the best intentions in the 
world — to get himself into dilemmas often embarrassing in the 
extreme. 

To-day, for instance, a methodical man would have attended 
to certain little matters of more pressing necessity than the 
heap of packets before him. As he now opened one after an- 
other with marvellous alacrity, branding the greater portion 
with the editorial D after a glance at the opening pages, he 
quite forgot one or two disagreeable circumstances that had 
been uppermost in his mind before his flight from town. The 
nature of his task, too, was very absorbing. Nothing exhila- 
rates more than the consciousness of weeding out, sifting, win- 
nowing. At the end of an hour the stack of rejected manu- 
scripts had reached gigantic proportions, and Mr. Beauregard 
was positively enjoying himself. If matters progressed at this 
rate, he should have a clear table in no time. It was now 
twelve of the clock, midday, but the solemn chiming of the 
hour from a neighboring church did not disturb the editor’s 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


75 


serenity. He forgot to make up his fire, he forgot the biscuit 
and glass of light Greek wine that did duty for luncheon at 
this hour, he forgot obligations of a more imperious nature, 
letters that pressed for a reply, appointments that should be 
kept without delay. In fact, he was now as completely isolated 
from the world of actualities as Sir Isaac Newton, when, in the 
search after gravity, he forgot his dinner. The twelfth hour 
had hardly been struck by the according bells of all the church- 
es in London, when a light tap at the door announced the par- 
lor-maid, a middle-aged, ladylike person, whose appearance 
spoke volumes for the character of the bachelor’s household. 

“ Really, Benson,” said the ruffled Mr. Beauregard, looking 
up with an expression of indescribable annoyance, “to break 
in upon me after my repeated injunctions ! I did not expect 
it of you.” 

“ Please look at the card, sir,” was the unflinching reply. 
“ This lady comes by appointment, by special appointment.” 

That quiet reproof — for such indeed it was — pleasantly in- 
dicated the position of things between master and servant. 
Only a man of the most fastidious exactitude in his social rela- 
tions could have permitted himself to be thus rebuked by a 
domestic. Only a perfectly well-bred servant could have expos- 
tulated after so becoming a fashion with her employer. 

“ When was an appointment with a woman not special ?” 
murmured the still discomposed editor, exasperated almost be- 
yond endurance, yet perforce resigning himself to duty and the 
inevitable. 

“ I will tell you what a pass matters have come to, my good 
Benson,” he added, in a milder tone. “ I make a new rule. 
From this moment no appointments are special. Henceforth I 
see nobody. I am invisible every forenoon from Monday till 
Saturday, from the first of January till the thirty -first of De- 
cember. Now hand me the card,” he said, looking more cheer- 
ful. The maid did as she was bidden, and gently withdrew. 
She was out of the room and out of hearing when Mr. Beaure- 
gard, starting to his feet, uttered an exclamation of dismay. 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


16 


“ Benson, stay a moment. Five minutes ; I must have five 
minutes in which to collect my thoughts. Do you hear, Ben- 
son ?” he cried, in a voice of entreaty. 

But it was too late. Already his visitor was on the stairs. 
In another moment he should have to confront her. There 
was no possibility of collecting those confused thoughts of his, 
no escape that he could see from a painful, an odious, an ab- 
ject dilemma. The unfortunate Mr. Beauregard looked the 
veriest culprit alive when the door opened and a young 
lady appeared on the threshold. For the first time in his ex- 
istence, the finished scholar, fastidious gentleman, and consum- 
mate man of the world had not so much as a word at his com- 
mand. Under any other circumstances he would have been 
shocked at the notion of receiving a lady in his smoking-gown, 
elegant and becoming though it might be. The little irregu- 
larity never once occurred to him. He might have been in a 
much less presentable costume, for aught he knew or cared at 
that moment. Not only his senses, his very instincts of pro- 
priety had deserted him. But there was no escape. The hor- 
rible ordeal must be gone through. 


Chapter II. 

There entered, with a sweet, hopeful smile, one of those par- 
sonage-bred girls that may almost be called survivals in these 
days of new feminine types and fresh ideals of womankind. 
This girl of twenty-five — so much you saw at a glance — was a 
stranger as yet to the revolutionary ideas traversing the civil- 
ized world concerning her sex, although quite fitted by natural 
endowments to realize them if they should come in her way. 
Hardly beauty was hers, but something rarer and more win- 
ning, a wonderful brightness and expansiveness, the curious, 
eager inquiry of a child combined with the keen sympathies 
and quick, intellectual perceptions of a full-grown, noble hu- 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


77 

man being. All this was written in her face, which might al- 
most be called beautiful as it was now turned eagerly and tim- 
idly towards the editor. Its expression was sunny, too. If 
thought or sorrow had sobered this hopeful girlish nature, it 
was evident that nothing could shake her trustingness and 
looking forward. She was dressed in deep mourning, and well 
did the sombre frame become the bright picture ; the prettiest 
brown hair, a fine brow, and that matchless complexion town 
beauties court in vain — these were hers. Mr. Beauregard placed 
a chair for his guest and bowed low, without a word. 

“ You were my father’s friend,” said the girl, holding out her 
hand, while tears rose to her sweet eyes. 

“ True, true. How absent I am. I had forgotten the very 
name of my visitor. My dear young lady — little Lucy you 
were to me when I saw you last — I was indeed grieved to hear 
of your good father’s death. But ” — here he glanced towards the 
table piled with manuscripts, and smiled drearily — “ this ter- 
rible business of editor demoralizes me. An editor has no 
friends. An editor ceases to be a feeling, a responsible hu- 
man being. For instance, I had quite forgotten my appoint- 
ment with you to-day. I had quite forgotten — ” He rose 
from his chair, and, standing with his back to the fire, looked 
her through and through. Then, as if lacking courage as yet 
to say what was on his lips, he reseated himself, utterly self- 
conscious and ill at ease. 

“ I have come at an inopportune moment, I see ; you are pre- 
occupied, engrossed in other matters,” said the girl, with a 
shade of disappointment. “ I will not keep you, then.” 

“ On the contrary, I shall be very glad to have a little talk 
with you,” said Mr. Beauregard, brightening. “ Let us consider 
this a friendly visit, and you shall come to me another day 
upon editorial business. Tell me of your little brothers and 
sisters ; your prospects.” 

“ You have not, of course, had time to read my manuscript ?” 
Lucy asked. Then, as if realizing the kindly intention of his 
speech, and the bad taste of insisting on a topic evidently so 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


78 

distasteful to him just then, she resumed : “ It is very good of 
you to interest yourself in us all. We are now orphans, and I 
am the head of the family. This is one reason why I am so 
anxious as to the fate of my manuscript.” The allusion had 
come unawares. She smiled sadly and proudly, and a. beauti- 
ful blush overspread her features as she went on. “ It is, per- 
haps, a foolish ambition, and too much happiness to hope for. 
For I had hoped, not only that I have some small literary gifts, 
but also that I might help to maintain my younger brothers 
and sisters by my pen, and I was ambitious for myself also. 
But I feel sure from your looks that there is disappointment in 
store for me. You think meanly of my performance, and you 
hesitate to break the unwelcome tidings.” 

“ Truth to tell,” Mr. Beauregard said, with nervous muscular 
contraction, “ I have not read a line of your manuscript. Alas!” 
and once more he seemed on the verge of making another con- 
fession. 

“Ah!” said the girl, growing once more animated, “I may 
still cherish hope then ; for, of course, what you have not read 
you cannot condemn ! But you begged me to leave the matter 
to-day, and I will therefore come again, if I may, and if you 
will fix an hour.” She half rose, as if bound not to encroach 
upon his precious time, but he motioned her to reseat herself. 
A great weight seemed lifted from his mind. He became quite 
suddenly his old, genial, delightful self. 

“ So long as you do not talk of manuscripts, my dear Miss 
Lucy — ” 

“ Please call me Lucy, as in the old days at home,” the girl 
said, with a grateful smile. 

The editor smiled also ; only, however, half pleased. 

“ It shall be so then, Lucy. Of course I appear quite an old 
fogy to you. Provided, however, you do not talk of manu- 
script, I am delighted to listen to you as long as you care to 
stay. Before going into particulars of your family history an- 
swer me one question.” 

He gazed penetratingly upon the eager, beautiful face — for 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


79 


beautiful it seemed to him in its freshness and candor — and 
asked : “ How came you to write a novel, at your age, with, as 
I imagine, but limited experiences of life? What put it into 
your head ? What made you think you could do it with fair 
chances of success ?” 

His visitor blushed and paused. After a minute’s reflection 
she made reply, speaking slowly and steadily, with ingenuous- 
ness, yet with indications of the self-confidence that must ever 
accompany worthy achievement. 

“You are thinking of the secluded rustic village in which 
my life has been passed. But is not human nature to be stud- 
ied everywhere? Even in my father’s little parish there was ro- 
mance and tragedy, moving incidents of real life, such as should 
make the stuff of novels. At least, so it seemed to me.” 

“ I looked for a novice, I find a critic,” Mr. Beauregard said. 
“ I will not interrupt you any more. All that you say interests 
me extremely. Pray go on.” 

“ I was then led to write my novel,” the young lady contin- 
ued, “by the keen interest I took in the joys and sorrows of 
those about me, and also by my enthusiasm for the country 
generally. As you know well, my native Suffolk has beauties 
of its own. I but attempted to describe what I best knew and 
best loved.” 

“ On my word, you make me quite eager to read your manu- 
script,” again broke in the editor ; then, with a sudden falling 
back into his old, uneasy mood, he added : 

“ I am all attention. Proceed.” 

“ I have very little more to say. I may perhaps exaggerate 
my sources of inspiration. I suppose few people are without 
a certain partiality to their native place,” Lucy went on. “But 
I must tell you that the incidents of my story are not all Arca- 
dian. The little pictures of village life, the flower-gathering in 
spring, the harvest supper, the autumn nutting in the woods — 
all these must have a human interest. And ” — here she glanced 
at him and smiled— “ the human interest brings in elements of 
good and evil.” 


BO 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


“ Love and bate,” the editor rejoined. “ It is no indiscre- 
tion, I hope, to assume that the theme of your story is the for- 
mer passion ?” 

“ You must read the manuscript,” said Lucy, looking on the 
ground, with heightened color, saying to herself that this man 
of the world, in spite of his kindness and affability, was a satir- 
ist and a despiser of feminine intellect. The thought was, 
doubtless, uppermost in his mind, what may a country curate’s 
daughter, shut up in a country village, know of love ? 

It was fortunate that Lucy Carruthers’s eyes did, in a tran- 
sitory fit of shyness, study the carpet, or the same expression of 
painful embarrassment in Mr. Beauregard’s face must have at- 
tracted her notice. He leaned forward, and was about to say 
something that cost a tremendous effort, when he was confront- 
ed by Lucy, smiling at him with almost mischievous archness. 

“You are wrong. ' There is very little of the love-story about 
my novel. Why may not certain stories, like certain episodes 
in real life, be deeply interesting, yet have nothing to do with 
love ?” 

“ My dear Miss Carruthers ; pardon me, my dear little friend 
Lucy,” said Mr. Beauregard, once more himself again. “ I am 
astonished at evidence of so much thought in a young girl. I 
begin to believe there is stuff in you, that for the first time in 
my life I have discovered talent, perhaps genius.” 

“ Then,” Lucy retorted, still in the same gay, arch humor, 
“ you will assuredly read my manuscript.” 

“ Ah !” the editor said, “ first manuscript, like first love, is 
but a Dead Sea apple. Build no hopes, dear Miss Lucy, on 
this youthful attempt of yours. Excellence in literature, like 
steadfastness in love, is the gift of that great god whose name 
is Time. If, as I believe, you are really conscious of a hidden 
gift, are really possessed of a worthy ambition to make the 
most of that gift, come to me, not to-morrow, not in a twelve- 
month, but years hence with a manuscript.” 

The speech, so serious in itself, was yet spoken jestingly, 
and as a jest Lucy evidently preferred to regard it. 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


81 


“Oh,” she said, eagerly, almost passionately, “you would 
not say this if you had read my story. It is a part of my life, 
of myself, and nothing else I shall ever write will be in the 
least like it. Surely,” she added, as if anxious to qualify what 
might appear overweening self-assertion, “ intensity of feeling, 
which has so little to do with wisdom or experience, may be 
adequately expressed without these. Is there not force in the 
very freshness of our earliest impressions ? I am sure I shall 
never' realize any incident so intensely as that which I have at- 
tempted to describe.” 

Mr. Beauregard’s powers of self-containment seemed at an 
end. He turned red and pale. He made an effort to speak, 
and found himself without power of utterance. He started 
from his chair, and reseated himself. The country girl could 
but interpret such strange behavior after one fashion. In spite 
of the kind reception accorded by her father’s old friend ; in 
spite of his friendly, nay, affectionate, interest in her welfare, 
he was keenly, desperately anxious to be rid of her all the 
while. Some far more urgent matter pressed. The visit of a 
far more important personage was one. She rose to go. 

“ When may I come again to learn the fate of my story ?” 
she said, once more recurring to the forbidden subject without 
apology. 

After all, this was the business that had brought her hither. 
The topic, however ungrateful, could not be ignored. 

“To-morrow — a week hence — at your own time,” was the 
enigmatic answer; at least, so it sounded in Lucy’s ears; for 
how could a busy editor get through a manuscript of six hun- 
dred pages in a day ? 

“ It had better, perhaps, be a week hence,” she said. “ I do 
not wish to hurry or to trouble you.” 

“ Not at all. The sooner we get over the matter the better ; 
at least for me,” added Mr. Beauregard, with a faint attempt at 
a smile. “ For pity’s sake, let it be to-morrow !” 

The girl’s candid eyes perused her interlocutor inquiringly, 
and she offered no further remonstrance. Truth to tell, the 

6 


82 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


eccentricity of Mr. Beauregard’s manner was really perplexing 
her as much as his friendliness had charmed her a quarter of 
an hour before. She made her adieus somewhat pensively, 
feeling sure that, after all, something was wrong, and that to- 
morrow would bring no felicitous news about her manuscript. 


Chapter III. 

If the young aspirant after literary honors went away crest- 
fallen, in much worse case was the accomplished man of let- 
ters, her editor. Work was now wholly out of the question. 
Not another manuscript would be consigned to purgatory, par- 
adise, or perdition that day. An unpropitious incident had 
wrecked it. Like so many of its fellows, it had opened prom- 
isingly, to end in collapse. The day was spoiled, as ninety- 
nine days out of a hundred are spoiled, and there was an end 
to the matter. Mr. Beauregard lighted a cigarette, and, while 
he smoked it, held in one hand Lucy’s little card, which he 
contemplated from time to time. 

What an attractive girl ! What a charming incident, this 
visit of hers, but for the unlucky spectre of the lost manu- 
script, he mused. The more he dwelt upon Lucy’s looks and 
speeches the more he felt drawn towards her and interested in 
her future. Yes, a girl of this pattern was no mere sentimen- 
talist, anxious to be listened to ; no self-deluded competitor 
after honors to which she had not a tittle of claim. This 
maiden’s written as well as her spoken thoughts must be worth 
something. No flimsiness, emptiness, incoherence here. It 
was a mind not only gifted with insight, but expression ; and 
when, in the case of a young writer, you have said so much, 
mused Mr. Beauregard, you have said all. Who could tell? 
This country parson’s daughter might turn out to be something 
more than a clever exponent of original thought and subtile or 
vivid impressions. Common her achievement could hardly be, 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


83 


nor dull, he felt sure, while of sentimentality or extravagance 
he could not discover a trace. She must, too, have reached an 
age when the mind of man or woman, if not ripe, is mature. 
Twenty - four years he felt bound to assign her, and others 
have won laurels before attaining so many. The conviction he 
gradually arrived at was exasperating, maddening. 

This lost manuscript of Lucy Carruthers might be a gem, a 
masterpiece, a second “ Northanger Abbey ” or “ Villette.” It 
occurred to the distracted editor, as he sat thus, contemplating 
Lucy’s little card, that he would forthwith write to her and ex- 
plain the disastrous affair by letter. Such a course, savoring 
as it did of cowardice, was odious to him ; but the thought of 
witnessing her distress was more than odious, it was simply in- 
tolerable. The kind- hearted, chivalrous, impulsive Mr. Beau- 
regard was a sybarite in one respect. He could not inflict 
pain upon any human being, or, indeed, any living creature. 
Even when moral duty pointed the other way, he must be con- 
siderate, consolatory, kind. How, then, could he deliberately 
break to the hoping, expectant, ardent girl the tidings that her 
labor, nay, her very inspiration, was as if it had not been ; that 
those bright, buoyant hours of creation were as bubbles that 
had burst? How could he reveal his own unmitigated, crimi- 
nal carelessness ? Had the manuscript belonged to any one else 
but his old friend’s daughter apology and compensation would 
have been almost easy. Had it come from some poor, pains- 
taking nonentity, moved to write for daily bread, a check would 
have ended the dilemma satisfactorily to both parties. He 
knew exactly with whom he had to deal here. 

This girl had not put pen to paper with a view to gain. She 
had written her story because she could not help writing it, 
and compensation was wholly out of the question. No. Alike 
excuse and atonement in this case were beyond his reach. He 
must tell her the truth, nothing but the truth, and throw him- 
self on her generosity to forgive. Women were very forgiving, 
reasoned Mr. Beauregard, trying to reassure himself. They 
could forgive and again receive into favor the peccant lover. 


84 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


the recalcitrant husband. What offence, indeed, will not a 
magnanimous woman overlook? But literature has no sex. 
The woman becomes merged in the author, and that author 
must be superhuman who should forgive the loss of a manu- 
script. How had he contrived such a piece of folly ? A man- 
uscript is no easy thing to lose. Fire, in spite of popular su- 
perstition to the contrary, doth not readily consume it. Water 
will not engulf it. Earth refuses to make dust of it. Air, in- 
stead of corroding, cherishes it. Nor doth the cupidity of 
man lust after it. To sum up the whole matter, nothing in the 
world possesses so tough an existence as a ream of paper cov- 
ered with handwriting. Such, at least, had hitherto been the 
experience of Mr. Beauregard till this unlucky misadventure. 
He had ever found in his editorial capacity that the conserva- 
tion of manuscript was the easiest thing in the world. But 
the getting rid of it ! There was the pinching of the shoe, the 
thorn in the flesh ! Some manuscripts, indeed, seemed en- 
dowed with immortality as to their material part, whatever 
their destiny as spiritual ministers of humanity might be. 
How, then, had it come about that of the scores and hundreds 
of manuscripts he could not have lost, had he set himself the 
task, that special one should slip through his fingers? It 
might, perhaps, savor of imprudence to transact editorial busi- 
ness in the open air ; but, if an editor did not get through a 
good deal of work in the summer holidays, where would he 
find himself at the end of the year? And he had done the 
same thing — slipped a manuscript into his luncheon basket 
when boating on the Thames — not once, but a dozen times, 
without any accident. Boating, indeed, was one of the few 
recreations Mr. Beauregard really cared about. It would be 
hard if he were driven to give it up simply because a punt was 
not quite a safe place in which to read a manuscript ! He re- 
membered quite well every circumstance regarding the loss: 
the careful bestowal of Lucy’s packet in the basket containing 
his loaf and cold partridge, and the leaving of the punt in its 
usual moorings while he scrambled up the bank ; the delightful 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


85 


noonday ramble, the return, a couple of hours later, to find 
alike luncheon and manuscript gone. All this was clearly im- 
pressed on his memory. Not a vestige of either to be espied 
anywhere, not a creature in sight to afford a clew. 

The affair was very mysterious certainly, but had not worn 
a very grave aspect at first. Some hungry wayfarer must have 
appropriated the cold partridge and roll, and, as a second 
snowy napkin enveloped all three, had gone off with the man- 
uscript into the bargain ! But it was sure to be discarded by 
the marauder ere he had gone many paces. A small reward 
offered to the village lads, and the missing packet would be 
found and promptly restored to him. Rewards, however, and 
the most stringent search alike proved ineffectual. The police 
were set to work, the river was dragged near the scene of the 
disaster. Mr. Beauregard had spent twenty pounds in his at- 
tempt to recover the missing treasure, and nothing had come 
of it. He had then reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that 
a stray dog must be the culprit. The partridge had been acci- 
dentally sniffed, the corner of the outer napkin tugged at, the 
heavy bundle at last dragged to the surface, and plump ! all 
had vanished in a twinkling. Its weight had foiled the designs 
of the thief, and at the bottom of the Thames now lay poor 
Lucy’s novel. 

Again and again he had been on the point of breaking 
the intelligence to his unknown correspondent ; so, in his ab- 
sent-mindedness, he supposed her to be, having forgotten the 
very name of Lucy Carruthers. But again and again the sorry 
business was deferred. The manuscript might be unearthed, 
after all. Miracles might happen. So the evil day had been 
put off. 

The moments glided by now as he sat alone and unoccupied, 
till he could bear these self-reproaches no longer, and betook 
himself to his club, to chat, look at the papers, and get rid of 
a pricking conscience, at least for an hour or two. Then he 
strolled into the Winter exhibitions, not because he felt in the 
humor for enjoying pictures, but simply from the necessity he 


86 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


was under of seeking distraction. And wherever he went a 
spectre followed him ; he fancied he saw Lucy’s eager face ; 
he heard her ask, in those fresh, girlish tones, whose music 
haunted his ears still, “ When may I learn the fate of my man- 
uscript ?” 

Of course a man of Mr. Beauregard’s position could not take 
two turns in a picture-gallery without meeting half a dozen ac- 
quaintances. On this especial day, as he sauntered from one 
canvas to another with a blank face, his unwonted appearance 
called forth not a little comment among his friends. One 
thought he had suddenly experienced heavy money losses, an- 
other suggested that he had fallen in love, a third was of opin- 
ion that some dire illness was coming upon him. That some- 
thing very serious was the matter none doubted for a moment. 

“ I don’t like the look of Beauregard,” said one common ac- 
quaintance to another. “Do look him up to-morrow; for I 
shall be out of town myself. My notion is he is in for brain- 
fever.” 

“ Typhoid, most likely ; he told me he had just returned 
from the banks of the Thames,” was the reply. “ I have no 
confidence myself in the Thames valley in autumn.” 

There are, indeed, certain frames of mind to which quite 
sane people are liable, that yet savor strangely to the world, 
and even to themselves, of madness. Mr. Beauregard’s over- 
sensitive nature was wrought up to this pitch. He reasoned 
with himself in vain. He said that a frank, hearty apology 
would make peace between himself and Lucy. A well-bred, 
generous girl could but accept his excuses, and forgive the un- 
intentional wrong he had done her. Once this unhappy im- 
broglio cleared up, and Lucy’s disappointment well over, their 
relations might become not only easy, but delightful. He 
wanted a new interest in life ; craved for a fresher, less world- 
ly atmosphere than he had breathed so long. If, as he was 
ready to believe, this sweet country maiden possessed some- 
thing more than talent, how interesting the task of leading and 
aiding her, proving alike helper, critic, friend. Coward that 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


87 


he was, this enticing future lay near, yet he could not summon 
courage to make it his own, to bridge over the gulf between 
suspense and security by a word. Surely such behavior was 
not that of a responsible human being, much less of a man of 
the world. 

Mr. Beauregard was as well aware as could be of his weak- 
ness and inconsistency in thus acting. But for the first time 
in life he found himself shrinking from duty and shirking moral 
obligation. For the first time he was aware of encouraging a 
morbid fancy. That the lost manuscript was a work of gen- 
ius, that in losing Lucy’s novel he had not only robbed a richly 
endowed mind of the recognition that was its due, but the 
world of a chef d? oeuvre , was sheer assumption on his part. 
Yet he would have it so, and hugged the very chimera that 
tormented him. He saw himself the worst enemy of the wom- 
an whom, above all others, he was bound to befriend. For 
Lucy Oarruthers had come to him no stranger. She was the 
daughter of his earliest friend, the boon companion of his 
school and college days. “ Poor Carruthers !” sighed the kind- 
hearted Beauregard. “ Poor Charley ! A better fellow never 
walked the earth ; and how hardly the fates dealt with him ! 
Twenty years of a struggling curate’s life, and then to die in 
his prime.” How sad was all this ; and somehow he had not 
realized all this before. “ An editor’s career robs us of natural 
affection, manuscript turns us into stone,” mused Mr. Beaure- 
gard. “ Lucy Carruthers, an orphan, unendowed of fortune, the 
head of a helpless young family ! Good heavens, what a posi- 
tion ! And what have I not done to add to its bitterness?” 

The editor, it will be seen, had brought back his uneasy 
thoughts from the club and the picture-galleries ; nor did they 
quit his hitherto careless pillow. He could not remember, 
throughout his whole life, spending a more wretched night. 
Lucy’s lost story was the phantom that troubled his over- 
wrought brains, manuscript the nightmare that sat like lead 
upon his spirit, turning sleep into mockery, dreams into unrest. 
Thus the first hours of the night passed. 


88 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


PART II. 

Chapter IY. 

There are certain phases of sleeplessness which may be 
cured by a good resolution, and Mr. Beauregard, having tried 
one soporific after another, now resorted to this. He could 
see only one way of compensating poor Charley Carruthers’ 
orphan for the wrong he had unintentionally done her. He 
would adopt Lucy Carruthers. The solution seemed so happy 
that he could not in the least understand why it should have 
occurred so late. Of course, his interpretation of the word 
adoption was his own. He had no idea of taking the young 
lady into his house, much less of asking her to call him by the 
endearing name of father. Remoter still from his mind were 
all thoughts of undertaking the direction of Lucy’s life. What 
he meant by adoption was this : As one of her father’s earliest 
friends, as godfather of his eldest boy (“ Of course, I cannot be 
mistaken ; I did stand for Charley’s first-born,” mused the dis- 
tracted editor), moreover, as a very distant relation to Lucy on 
the maternal side, he must press upon her such offers of service 
as even a proud girl could not refuse. He would act as guar- 
dian till her younger brothers and sisters should be grown up, 
would get the boys into the Blue-coat school, the girls into the 
home for the daughters of the clergy, and would insist upon 
providing for their wants till they could earn a livelihood for 
themselves. As to Lucy herself, literary occupation should be 
found for her. He would introduce her to the world of art 
and letters, make her not only his pet, but his protegee, and she 
should have little reason to regret the loss of her manuscript. 
These soothing thoughts did at last have the desired effect. 
The feverish mood was shaken off. Nature reasserted itself, 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


89 


and as the work-a-day world of London was waking up, Mr. 
Beauregard fell asleep, this time to sleep indeed. 

It was late when the editor went down-stairs, and so many 
engrossing, and, for the most part, agreeable little incidents 
occurred between breakfast and luncheon that Lucy and her 
manuscript well-nigh escaped his memory. 

“ Good heavens !” had been his first thought on opening the 
study door, “ to-day ; yes, she is coming this very day.” 

Then he had turned to his letters and telegrams, and so ab- 
sorbing were they that the unlucky affair was for a while com- 
pletely lost sight of. His daily life was very interesting. What 
editor’s existence of such standing could be otherwise? His 
correspondence deserved the name of international, so wide- 
spread his relations with foreign men and women of letters, 
and although a scholar and a critic beyond all things, he by 
no means held aloof from politics. 

On this especial morning the post and the telegraphic wires, 
the hansom cab also, brought several pieces of intelligence of 
a gratifying, even exhilarating, nature. Agreeable news, to use 
a French expression, seemed in the wind. But, indeed, for the 
little matter of Lucy’s coming and her errand, Mr. Beauregard’s 
horizon would have been cloudless. More than one distinguished 
visitor, in spite of his resolve of the day before, the editor re- 
ceived that morning, and nothing is more engrossing than con- 
versation of a certain kind. Not, to-day, wearing smoking-gown 
and slippers, but dressed with care, as befitted the occasion, Mr. 
Beauregard gave an editorial audience to one or two illustrious 
personages whom even manuscript could not make odious. No 
sooner were his visitors gone than two or three letters had to 
be written, requiring close attention. So the hours speeded on, 
bringing nearer and nearer the Nemesis that seemed dreadful 
yesterday, but was now, for the nonce, veiled from sight. Mr. 
Beauregard was impulsive, as well as absent-minded, a man of 
inconstant mood and elastic humor, apt to be easily depressed 
and as easily moved to exuberant spirits. He was also given 
to an excellent mental habit. He threw his whole faculties into 


90 LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 

the immediate business on hand, and as the immediate business 
of to-day was not Lucy’s story, for a brief space it concerned 
him not at all. 

If the editor’s appearance had been ingratiating and agreeable 
yesterday, in spite of deshabille and embarrassment, how much 
more was it calculated to inspire liking and confidence now? 
As he sat sipping his early afternoon coffee, in that handsome, 
well-appointed study of his, musing pleasantly on the occur- 
rences of the morning, a more agreeable portrait of the nine- 
teenth century man of letters were hard to find. 

He was perfectly dressed; his scholarly features bore no 
trace of last night’s conflict; he looked what indeed he was, 
one of the kindliest critics, one of the most generous-hearted 
men you might meet on a summer day. But the touch of 
caprice, the unsteadiness of will, the impulsive, almost flighty 
purpose, might also be traced on that ingratiating countenance. 
It was highly characteristic of him that, for the second time, 
the announcement of Lucy’s visit should come as a kind of 
surprise. 

“ To-day, Benson ! Did I really say to-day ? You put my 
brain in a whirl,” he said, when the parlor-maid, implacable as 
before, again performed her disagreeable duty. “True, true! 
You are right. That Utopian theory of having no appointment 
has already vanished into thin air. But show the young lady up.” 

In the transient interval between Benson’s going and Lucy’s 
coming Mr. Beauregard’s mind was busy. He did not lose 
countenance, as he had done before. It was only natural that 
the morbid frame of yesterday should be followed by a re- 
action. Fresh news from the outer world, an agreeable circum- 
stance or two, had acted as a tonic in restoring him to himself. 

When the gentle intruder entered she was received with 
such encouraging looks and ready words of welcome that the 
poor girl’s heart leaped. She could but interpret his reception 
as a good augury. 

“ Take this chair opposite to me, my dear Miss Carruthers — 
Lucy, I should say, since I knew you as a baby,” the editor said, 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


91 


with one of his charming smiles. “ And you must not refuse 
a cup of my perfect Moorish coffee. We will confabulate 
quite at our ease.” 

With irresistible grace he handed her the tiny cup in its sil- 
ver filigree stand ; then, refilling his own, went on : 

“ It is very spirited of you, a country-bred girl, I must say, 
to find your way about this wilderness of London alone, and 
look up grim editors in their dingy dens.” 

Lucy smiled, thinking his appearance anything but grim, 
while nothing could be less like a den than this spacious, ele- 
gant library, her face said. 

A bright fire burned in the handsome fireplace ; the carved 
oak shelves showed books fastidiously bound ; half a dozen 
good pictures adorned the walls, and rich Oriental carpets and 
curtains lent warmth and color. She thought she had never 
seen so attractive a room. The experience in itself, too, pleased 
her. To hold converse with an eminent man of letters, to be 
privileged with a long tete-a-tete, breathe the very atmosphere 
of criticism — all these things seemed the beginning of that liter- 
ary life she had dreamed of in her country home. 

In spite of her impatience and suspense, therefore, she caught 
her host’s animated mood. 

“ I was just thinking the very reverse,” she said gayly. “ An 
editor must be an enviable person, manuscript a delightful call- 
ing ; so it seems to me.” 

He looked at her with some surprise. This naive parson’s 
daughter possessed, then, a vein of satire as well as of inventive 
power. And hers undoubtedly was the gift of beauty, too, he 
now said to himself, as he glanced at his visitor. Not only 
youth, with all its freshness, adorned his study, not only spark- 
ling vivacity and unstudied grace, but — there could be only one 
opinion on the matter — as lovely a pair of eyes as maiden was 
ever dowered with. 

“ Ah, manuscript, manuscript, little friend Lucy !” he an- 
swered, with a deprecatory look. “You are young. Time 
and experience may be left to disenchant you on that score. 


92 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


But, before anything, let us renew the thread of our discourse, 
snapped so rudely yesterday. You went away, leaving me as 
ignorant of your circumstances as you came. Confide in your 
father’s old friend. Do not misinterpret my inquisitiveness. 
Am I right in supposing that you were left unprovided for ?” 

“ There is a small, a very small income, that was my moth- 
er’s. That is all,” Lucy said, promptly and gratefully. “ Just 
a hundred pounds between us, and we are five.” 

“ Good God !” Mr. Beauregard ejaculated, under his breath. 
Then he asked, still somewhat despondent : 

“ And is your pen to be the mainstay of five ?” 

“ No, indeed,” Lucy replied, growing more and more confi- 
dential. “ Charley has got a scholarship at Cambridge, and al- 
ready earns money as a private tutor. Willy is gone to sea. 
Only little Tom and Bertha are quite helpless.” 

“ Come ; that is no desperate state of affairs,” Mr. Beaure- 
gard said, with a more cheerful look. “ So you intend to seek 
fame and fortune in London ?” 

Lucy blushed. He had hit the mark; but she feared that 
her self-confidence might appear overweening. 

“ I have decided to make the experiment, partly on account 
of cheapness of education for the children,” she said, and hesi- 
tated. 

“ And partly on your own. Listen to me. Be guided by 
me, one of your father’s oldest friends,” he said, looking at her 
half playfully, yet with a touch of real feeling. “ I am alone 
in the world, and, thank God, I have prospered far above my 
deserts. Whom should I befriend if not Charley Carruthers’ 
children? Take me into your confidence, then. Unburden 
yourself to me.” 

“ You are more than kind,” Lucy replied, deeply touched. 

“ In a word,” Mr. Beauregard added, bending forward and 
speaking eagerly, in an undertone, “ your dear father’s pro- 
longed illness, the breaking up of your home, the moving to 
London — all these things involve outlay. You must need 
money. Your brother’s godfather may surely share your re- 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


93 


spon sibil ities. I shall feel quite hurt if you do not let me help 
you.” 

“ Oh !” Lucy cried, “ help me to find some work. Show me 
how I may earn a small income. Then you will prove our 
benefactor indeed.” 

Mr. Beauregard looked far from satisfied. 

“You must think the matter over. Look well into your 
affairs, and let me know exactly how you stand. Come, I must 
insist on this point. Let me ” — here he winced — “ let me act 
a fatherly part towards you all.” 

“ There were no debts, and we are used to humble living,” 
Lucy said. “ All that I want is work.” 

“ We will return to this matter, then, another time. On the 
score of earning money have no fears,” the editor said. “ It 
happens — indeed, it most fortuitously happens — that I can at 
once put you in the way of making a little money. And by 
your pen.” 

She glanced at him with a radiant smile. Had he, then, really 
found time to look at her manuscript? Was he about to break 
encouraging news to her concerning it? The illusion was in- 
stantaneously dispelled. 

“ A literary colleague wants the kind of help you are, I feel 
sure, quite able to give, in preparing for the press some works 
for the young,” added the editor, smiling pleasantly. “ I will 
see him at once, and arrange matters.” 

Then, on a sudden, realizing her thoughts, he deftly gave the 
conversation a new turn. “Be guided by me. Betake your- 
self for the time rather to actualities, leaving dreams of fame 
and fortune for the future. You have worthy aims; you be- 
lieve in yourself. Let such a conviction preserve you from the 
rocks and shoals of self-delusion. Look well around you. Study 
not only the great books of the world, but men and manners. 
Enrich yourself with experience. Then if, at some unlooked- 
for moment, the voice of inspiration makes itself heard within, 
follow its guidance whithersoever it may lead, neither turning 
to the right nor to the left, hearkening not at all either to the 


94 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


world or the critics. Be yourself ; and, sooner or later, if that 
self is a robust one, if indeed it is your mission to instruct or 
enchant the world, you shall have a goodly following.” 

Lucy listened with almost breathless attention. She could 
but find it flattering to be thus addressed by such a man. But 
sad misgivings were in her mind as to her story. Every utter- 
ance as yet had reference to the future. 

“ And if,” pursued the monitor, “ if no voice of inspiration 
ever makes itself heard, your duty is no less clear. Leave liter- 
ature to the geniuses and the drudges — those who reign on 
Olympus and those who sweep its golden floors. Turn your 
face from the Will-o’-the-wisp that has befooled so many en- 
thusiasts, the mendacious oracle that has betrayed so many vo- 
taries. Remember that only one expression of life is thus de- 
nied you. Seek another no less worthy of your powers and am- 
bitions.” 

“ Then,” said Lucy, artlessly, and with a foolish tear that, for 
the life of her, she could not restrain, “then you have not 
looked at my manuscript after all ?” 


Chapter V. 

What has not the tear of a beautiful woman achieved ere 
now ? Lucy’s had arisen unbidden, and, with a blush of shame 
at such weakness, she now dashed it away. There was noth- 
ing of the coquette about this ingenuous, yet dignified, country 
maiden. She was as little given to unreasonable expressions of 
feeling as any woman could be, and was already rebuking her- 
self severely. What ground had she, moreover, for tears, seeing 
that, if the manuscript remained unread, it could not be con- 
demned? 

But the tear unmanned Mr. Beauregard completely. It let 
him into the secret of that sweet, earnest young life, whose ar- 
biter he was called upon to be, its dreams, its aspirations, its 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


95 


seriousness. No shallow, versatile character had he here to 
deal with, rather with one of those strong, sensitive, gifted nat- 
ures, to whom expansion is as necessary as air to the life ma- 
terial. Lovely as Lucy Carruthers had seemed to him before, 
the pathos of the situation made her positively adorable in his 
eyes now. For Mr. Beauregard, although a man of the world, 
was no worldling. His fine taste and really generous disposi- 
tion made him cling to naturalness whenever it came in his 
way, although artificiality was not wholly to be shunned. Never, 
throughout his career, had he found himself in a position so 
distracting, yet, he felt bound to admit it, so delicious! Lucy’s 
spontaneous tear accomplished what dazzling fascination and 
finished coquetry had hitherto failed to bring about. Its mute 
appeal, its trustingness, went straight to his heart. For the 
first time in his life he was wholly at the mercy of a senti- 
ment, caught in the toils of romantic feeling. 

“ Manuscript, manuscript !” he exclaimed, with one of those 
not ungraceful gestures of impatience habitual to him. “ Is, 
then, your mind already the bond-servant of paper and ink? 
Can you, a woman, were your gifts equal to those of the divine 
Shakespeare himself, shut your heart to sympathy and affec- 
tion ? Listen, Lucy, I have something to say which will cause 
you surprise.” He put in, parenthetically and brusquely, “ I 
have not read your manuscript. How trivial an affair must be 
alike a first literary attempt or the criticism it calls forth ! But 
the close personal life each must lead by the fireside! Ah! 
that concerns us more nearly than empty achievement and hol- 
low praise. You are young. While it is yet time, ere the 
world has spoiled you, be ruled by me. Turn your thoughts 
from manuscript to love.” 

Lucy smiled now. That inconsequent tear was already for- 
gotten, and she was schooling herself into a tractable spirit. 
She felt bound to listen respectfully to whatever her father’s 
old friend had to say to her, although this sudden change of 
topic and medley of sarcasm, worldly wisdom, and kindliest in- 
terest in herself puzzled her not a little. His last word did 


96 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


not make her blush ; but she looked at him curiously, won- 
dering what advice would fall from his lips next. Nothing 
he could say must affront her, was the thought uppermost in 
her mind. Mr. Beauregard was certainly not old ; his appear- 
ance she thought particularly prepossessing ; but he called her 
by her Christian name ; he had known her in the cradle. He 
was, therefore, privileged to say what he pleased. 

“ You are young,” repeated the editor. “ I am almost double 
your years. But let me out with the truth at once. You have 
awakened in my heart such an interest as I never felt for any 
woman before.” Then, indeed, Lucy’s consternated blushes 
came, and her eyes sought the carpet. He seized his advan- 
tage, and went on. 

“ That interest was aroused when you opened your mind to 
me yesterday. I said to myself how happy I should be to 
have you near me always, to aid you, perhaps, to realize your 
fondest wishes. And my brotherly relations with your good 
father, my deep interest in his orphan children, my own hap- 
pier fortunes, all of these circumstances seemed to make such 
a consummation possible. 4 Why should I not adopt Charley 
Carruthers’ daughter ?’ I said to myself, when you were gone.” 

“ The thought was kind,” poor Lucy said, still perplexed, but 
beginning to feel more at her ease. 

“ I was disinterested in theory, I admit,” Mr. Beauregard 
went on, with one of his charming smiles, ingratiating, yet half 
self-condemnatory. “We are all free enough from egotism 
till it comes to deeds. The scheme is impossible. My own 
vanity and selfishness, your pride and sense of independence, 
would have stood in the way. No, Lucy, away with chimeras 
and delusions. Let us look at the truth in the broad light of 
day. I ask you, then, not to become my protegee, much less 
adopted daughter, but my wife.” 

Nothing could have been manlier, franker, or more calculated 
to inspire confidence than such a speech ; and Lucy, while re- 
senting the suddenness of the proposal, felt really touched and 
grateful. His sincerity and plain-speaking, so unlike the love- 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


97 


making she had dreamed of, went to her heart. She could but 
feel flattered also at this tribute, coming from such a man. 
And although all thoughts of love were far, very far, from her 
mind just then, she was conscious of a real liking for her father’s 
old friend. 

“ I have taken you by surprise,” Mr. Beauregard said, very 
kindly. There was another tear glistening on the long, dark 
eyelashes. “ You came to me this afternoon ill-prepared for 
such an avowal.” 

Lucy smiled at him through her tears, and, not finding a 
word to say, rose to go. How could she answer such a ques- 
tion then ? No other alternative occurred to her. 

“ I will write to you,” she stammered out at last, as she 
looked about for her reticule and umbrella. 

“ A moment ; reseat yourself just for one moment, to oblige 
me,” Mr. Beauregard said. “ I am in earnest ; you must be in 
earnest, too. If you think you can give me your best affection, 
if ” — here he smiled half sarcastically — “ you can put love first, 
and relegate manuscript to a secondary place in your heart, then 
I will not only devote myself to you, I will be the protector of 
your helpless brothers and sisters.” 

If Lucy had felt drawn towards him by grateful sentiment 
before, much more was she touched by his last words. For the 
first time she realized that Mr. Beauregard, in spite of his sar- 
casms and worldliness, had the tenderest heart. 

“ You have perhaps been led away by a generous impulse ; 
my misfortunes have interested you,” she said, with great sweet- 
ness and dignity. a You should surely have time; and, for 
myself, what can I say to you now ?” 

“ We will see each other again, then ; but that right soon. 
How soon?” he asked, lover- like, yet editorial. “A week 
hence — in three days’ time — to-morrow ? We will say to-mor- 
row.” Lucy looked irresolute. “ To-morrow,” repeated the 
inflexible editor, holding one of her little hands in his. 

“ I will write to you first. For now, of course, I must not 
come to see you any more,” Lucy said, playfully and patheti- 

7 


08 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


cally , glancing round the den, as he had called it, with a regretful 
look. How sorry she felt that, whatever else might happen, 
these editorial interviews and literary confabulations were over. 

“Yes; that is the best plan. Write to me,” here he 
looked at her penetratingly, and with true lover-like insinua- 
tion. “ Mind that the letter be favorable* Editors, no more 
than authors, relish a refusal.” 

Lucy’s eyes, so tearful and downcast before, now brimmed 
over with sudden mischievousness. She could not help feeling 
that however devoted and chivalrous Mr. Beauregard’s personal 
conduct might be, in his editorial capacity he had treated her, 
if not with contempt, at least with offhandedness. The man, 
the friend, the lover, she found agreeable enough. But the 
editor ! What an objectionable personage was that ! He had 
made his proposal in the most delicate and flattering manner ; 
so much she was bound to admit. His homage was paid to 
the woman, not to the author, an invidious distinction now for 
the first time forcing itself on her mind. She had sought Mr. 
Beauregard on other quest. Manuscript, not love, should have 
been the theme of their discourse. 

“ And, if I write to you to-morrow, will you write to me 
soon also — about my story,” she asked, as she turned from her 
lover. 


Chapter VI. 

He let her go away unanswered. But the door had no sooner 
closed upon that vision of candor and girlish loveliness than 
overmastering self-reproach took possession of him. He was 
really — so, at least, he persuaded himself — as much in love as 
it was possible for a man to be. How unworthy, how dastardly, 
was his conduct in thus withholding the fate of her manuscript, 
thus trying to occupy her mind with love rather than literary 
ambition ; turning her, perhaps, from the recognition, even dis- 
tinction, that was her due ! Very possibly Lucy might be de- 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


99 


ceiving herself, and might mistake a certain power of expres- 
sion and quickness in reading character for the higher gifts of 
the imagination. It was his business to have found this out, 
and to have rigidly performed his duty as editor before breath- 
ing a word of love in her ears. He saw, moreover, in this 
clinging to her first effort and this evident belief in it ill augury 
for the future. Had he told her the truth at first she must 
have forgiven him readily ; perhaps would have courageously 
sat down to rewrite the lost story. At any rate, he ought to 
have acquainted her with her loss, and imposed the task. 

The young authoress’s probation over, the editorial verdict 
awarded, he could have asked her to become his wife without 
wrong to her or shame to himself. He knew that in the role 
of Lucy’s suitor he had done nothing whatever to be ashamed 
of. He was ready to abide by his w 7 ords, to devote himself to 
her, to act a fatherly part towards her little brother and sister. 
Of capricious temper and changeful purpose, he yet invariably 
kept his promise. If Lucy accepted him, she should never have 
cause to regret a decision thus precipitately forced upon her. 

Certainly, his proposal had been made upon impulse, w'ith al- 
most reckless disregard of consequences. That he admitted. 
Her ingenuousness, her vivacity, also — she was right there — 
her circumstances, had interested him beyond measure. And 
there was that wretched business of the manuscript, the unin- 
tentional wrong he had done her. Would any man have acted 
differently ? But the word was spoken. The pledge was given. 
He had sufficient youthfulness of feeling left to sympathize 
with a girl of her stamp, and, as he hoped and believed, to ren- 
der her happy. 

If, therefore, he had been over-hasty in making this declara- 
tion, at least he came to the conclusion that there was no self- 
deception in store for either. 

The little brother and sister, without a doubt, were a stum- 
bling-block. He adored quiet. He was not used to children 
in real life. He preferred them in art and poetry. Still, chil- 
dren go* to school, and Lucy, he felt sure, had far too much 


100 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


good sense and good feeling to victimize a husband with her 
little family. Pshaw ! ’Twas a bagatelle , making mountains 
of mole-hills, to dwell on the matter for a second. But the 
catastrophe of the manuscript ! 

In what mood would she listen when the critic, not the lover, 
should plead his cause? Would she not turn from him in 
scorn? Would she not be ready to dislike the very man who 
was willing to make such sacrifices for her, such amends for his 
wrong-doing ? 

Nightfall began with a gloomy fog and persistent downpour ; 
but not an earthquake would have kept Mr. Beauregard at 
home that evening. He must see Lucy at once, and unburden 
himself of his odious, his contemptible, his ridiculous secret. 
The bare notion of receiving a letter from her before this ex- 
planation should be made was intolerable. Yes, he would set 
off that very moment. 

The night could hardly have been more unpropitious ; and 
Mr. Beauregard disliked bad weather extremely. He had also 
many other important pieces of business to transact ; but, fortu- 
nately, no engagement to dinner. He was, therefore, free to 
find Lucy out in her suburban lodging, and dine afterwards 
when and where he pleased. 

Into the rain and fog, therefore, plunged the irritated critic 
and discomposed lover, thinking that, at least, by means of a 
hansom, his errand might be fulfilled without excessive personal 
discomfort. Are we not all addicted to well-being, when no 
longer in the heyday of youth? Mr. Beauregard was no syba- 
rite, but he objected to muddy boots, rain-bespattered garments, 
and dripping umbrellas. He liked to feel dry, warm, and pre- 
sentable. That was all. 

There are certain new suburban quarters that almost defy 
discovery, and, after a wasted hour amid small, semi-detached 
villas of precisely the same pattern, the hansom was dismissed 
in despair, and the search pursued on foot; and, at last, after 
many inquiries, he did succeed in his object, reaching Lucy’s 
door in that very condition of amphibiousness so distasteful to 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


101 


him. But no sooner was he in her presence than he forgot 
the rain and the fog without, and all the depressing circum- 
stances of that long drive and bespattered walk. As long as 
he lived Mr. Beauregard would never forget the sweetness of 
the picture that met his eyes then. The little lodging-house 
maid had merely indicated the door from below, leaving the 
visitor to find his way up-stairs and introduce himself. He 
stepped up-stairs lightly, and, finding the door ajar, and catch- 
ing sight of Lucy reading by the table, alone, entered the tiny 
drawing-room without announcing himself. 

So absorbed was she in her task that she did not notice the 
intrusion. Shading her eyes with one hand, with the other 
holding a letter, she went on reading, evidently fascinated by 
the page, utterly oblivious to the outer world. Never, Mr. 
Beauregard thought, had he seen a more exquisite impersona- 
tion of intellectual girlhood. For no mere beauty of the rose- 
bud type was Lucy Carruthers, no mere excellent specimen of 
the fresh, intelligent, candid English girl. It was now rather 
the critic who gazed than the lover, and he said to himself that 
much more than sweetness and sprightliness were here. That 
beautifully shaped head, so studiously bent over the page, that 
fine brow, those contemplative lips, bespoke character and men- 
tal gifts of no ordinary type. She was a girl as yet; but of 
such girls are perfect women made. In the silhouette he dis- 
cerned a picture. He noted, also, with those fastidious eyes of 
his, the unpretendingness, yet charm, of her appearance ; the 
dress so becoming, yet unaffected, the beautiful arrangement of 
hair, the easy grace of the whole. She might that very mo- 
ment have sat for her portrait. All these particulars were taken 
in at a glance. He gave himself no time for more. Not un- 
mindful, in spite of his enthusiasm, of the errand on which he 
had come, at last determined to cast off his burden, he moved a 
step forward, and called her by name. 

“ Lucy,” he said, softly, “ Lucy, I have come to you to make 
a confession. That manuscript of yours” — and there he 
stopped. He could not get out a word more, 


102 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


Chapter VII. 

Little explanation was, however, needed on his part. It 
was Lucy herself who had, evidently, an eager story to tell. 
Before her on the table lay a packet that bore a strangely 
familiar look to his bewildered eyes. Was, then, the manu- 
script found that had caused him so many self-reproaches, and 
led to such desperate dilemmas? 

“ My poor story ; what strange adventures it has gone 
through !” Lucy cried, too happy and too much occupied to 
dwell now upon the part he had played in its history. “ But 
I am full of hope about it. Do read this letter,” she added, 
glancing at him with an expression of mingled reproach and 
playfulness. “You could not, then, bear to break to me the 
news that the packet was lost? But you must have told me 
sooner or later. And I should never have forgiven you ; never, 
never, of course,” she said, laughingly. 

The editor dropped at the nearest chair, with a sigh of relief. 
He was quite overwhelmed. 

“ Heaven be praised !” he said. “ Lucy, you little dream of 
the nightmare that innocent creation of your fancy has been 
to me, depriving me of peace of mind, a proper sense of moral 
obligation, and really, I am almost tempted to believe, sanity. 
I would have given five hundred pounds to recover it. After 
our first interview, too, I felt convinced that the work had 
merits of no common order. That made matters ten times 
worse. I was well-nigh distracted.” 

Lucy’s clear eyes sought his own for a moment with an arch 
scrutiny that made him wince. Hardly mistrust was to be read 
in that swift, searching gaze, but a newly awakened feeling of 
sympathetic understanding, perhaps humorous inquiry, almost 
of compassion. 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


103 


Mr. Beauregard’s interpretation of it was ready to go further. 
He thought that this gentle girl read his mind as an open book, 
and that she was willing to forgive not only the wrong he had 
unintentionally done her, but the steps he had taken towards 
making atonement. For, sincerely as he believed himself to 
be in love with Lucy Carruthers, he did not hesitate to attrib- 
ute his precipitate love-making to a motive with which love 
had nothing to do ; and, with her quick woman’s insight into 
character, she would see it all and despise him for the very 
disinterestedness of his conduct. The man of the world, the 
highly esteemed editor, the much- dreaded critic, saw himself 
unflatteringly judged by a little country maiden, whose acquaint- 
ance he had made in the cradle. 

These unpalatable convictions were followed by one more, 
equally so. As she now eagerly reverted to the recovery of 
her story, he felt that, much as he might have interested her a 
few hours ago, her first literary attempt interested her far more. 
Love, as yet, had fewer charms for her than manuscript. The 
last assurance, although humiliating in the extreme, was not 
devoid of comfort ; a final understanding would be compara- 
tively easy under the circumstances, and to a man of Mr. Beau- 
regard’s order of mind anything was preferable to complications 
and half measures. Whatever else might happen, his relations 
with Lucy would now be made clear and definite. 

“ Was ever anything lost, and found so fortunately ?” she 
began, gayly, unable to resist the humorous side of the inci- 
dent. “ But is it not rather hazardous to read manuscripts in 
a boat? Might you not very probably lose much more valu- 
able works than mine in that way ?” 

“ Do not spare your castigations. I own myself to be a fit 
subject for rebuke,” replied Mr. Beauregard, comfortably, from 
his arm-chair by the fire. He was gradually recovering com- 
posure and self-confidence. He had rid himself of his damp 
overcoat and dripping umbrella, and the warmth of this little 
room, the brightness of Lucy’s presence, above all, the feeling 
of a liberated conscience, were very soothing. 


104 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


“ You know how the packet was lost,” Lucy said, placing 
the letter in his hand ; “ the finding of it was more extraor- 
dinary, as you will discover.” 

He drew his chair nearer to the lamp, and glanced first at 
the superscription, then at the contents, with increasing amaze- 
ment. 

“ Yere Fortescue ! What an odd coincidence ! We were 
at Cambridge together. So he also has taken to editorship ! 
Humph ! I dare say he is more fitted for the business than 
myself. ‘Happening to find the manuscript by the river-side 
at Wargrave’ — how did it get there? What about the boat? 
bat let me read on — ‘ and having no time to look after the 
owner— I was going off to Switzerland that very day — I carried 
it with me to read on the road.’ My dear Lucy, you must take 
manuscript to be a very demoralizing profession, editors a most 
unprincipled set of men. What business had I to lose your 
story, and what business had he to carry it off, I wonder? 
However, we will go on. ‘ And, my absence from England 
being unexpectedly prolonged, I have only now the opportu- 
nity of returning your story, and telling you with what sincere 
pleasure I have read it ’ — My dear child, I congratulate you. 
Fortescue is a man of taste, and has written some charming 
things himself. But let me finish his letter — ‘and how glad 
I shall be to further your wishes regarding it, unless I am fore- 
stalling some reckless editor or publisher who left your packet 
among the reeds by the river.’ A quotation from Mr. Brown- 
ing, that ! But, on my word of honor, Lucy^ the manuscript 
was left not among the reeds by the river, but in the bottom 
of the boat — a safe place enough for anything, one would 
think — the loaf and the partridge tied up with it. Does he 
mention them? No, not a word. ‘You will do better; your 
work has the exaggerations, permit me to say, the crudities, of 
inexperience. But it has a power ’ — on my word — ‘ of a quiet 
kind, but power, nevertheless’ — I assure you, Lucy, I felt it 
to be so — ‘and a sense of proportion, insight, and humor. 
Believe me to be, my dear madam, etc., etc.’ You have my 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


105 


sincere felicitations,” Mr. Beauregard said, now fairly over- 
come ; and, rising from his chair, he took her hand in his, and 
looked ready to press a fatherly or lover-like kiss on her brow. 

“ It is very kind of you. I am, indeed, too happy !” she 
cried. “Yet,” she added, with shy, proud glances at her 
packet, “I must not allow my mind to dwell too much on 
these praises. I must try to do better. Ah ! how happy I 
am.” 

“ I fear, with your happiness just now I have little enough 
to do,” Mr. Beauregard said, with a crestfallen air. “You for- 
give me, I see. The editor is dismissed without rancor, perhaps 
with the scorn he deserves. But the man, Lucy, the suitor for 
your hand. What have you to say to him ?” Lucy stood by 
the table, between her lover and her manuscript, one hand still 
in his, the other resting on her packet. She was evidently 
striving to be just to him, and to think kindly of his motives ; 
above all, to be perfectly open and candid. But how to speak 
exactly the thought of her mind without giving pain? After 
a pause, she said, with great sweetness and dignity, 

“ Will it not be better to wait a little while, till we know 
each other better? You may have been more sorry for me 
than you thought, more interested in my fortunes than you 
knew,” she said hesitatingly, yet perfectly self-possessed. “ And 
you had lost my manuscript ; you had done me, as you thought, 
an irreparable injury. All these motives may have actuated 
you in speaking to me as you did this afternoon. For you 
can hardly care very much for me after so short an acquaint- 
ance.” 

Once more she looked wistfully at the packet and open letter 
lying on her table, and added: “And this new life of litera- 
ture may absorb me. You might, perhaps, not approve — ” 

Mr. Beauregard came to her aid. 

“ Most beautifully have you put our case, and I will abide by 
your decision,” he said, greatly touched. “You shall write to 
me, therefore, not to-morrow, but in a week, or a fortnight, if 
you will.” 


106 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


Lucy looked unconvinced. 

“ Would it not be wiser to say a year?” she said naively. 

“A year! Twelve months! Four seasons! Is not that 
rather a long period out of one’s life, at least, of mine? You 
are younger, and have more time to spare. No. The proba- 
tion must be shorter. Curtail it, I entreat you.” 

“But,” Lucy went on, as determined as himself upon com- 
ing to a clear understanding, “ why should there be any proba- 
tion at all ? Why should we not remain friends, and nothing 
more for the present, indefinitely ?” 

He did not respond. The farther this sweet illusion drifted 
from him the more ardently he endeavored to grasp it. At 
that moment Lucy was positively adorable in his eyes. “ You 
will have friends in plenty. I would fain be the foremost!” 
he said, pleading his cause bold and lover-like. “ Will you 
not try, then, to care more for me than the rest — for the sake 
of the lost manuscript, and all I have suffered on its behalf,” 
he urged, quite serious all the time, yet not without a sense of 
the whimsicality of the plea. 

“ There seems on a sudden too much for me to care about. 
I feel bewildered,” Lucy answered. 

“ Ah !” he cried, gathering hat, cloak, and umbrella to go. 
“You are bent upon fame! Your head is already turned by 
visions of fortune. Were I an utter egotist I could hope for 
the day of disenchantment, could even wish for the time when, 
turning from the world to the fireside, you should be ready to 
exchange manuscript for love. But, no ; I will not be selfish. 
Keep your generous illusions and bright dreams. I, for one, 
will not question the wisdom of your decision, although it goes 
against my dearest wishes. Be true to yourself, dear child, 
and Heaven’s choicest blessings rest upon you.” 

He bent forward, and Lucy, deeply moved, did not resent 
the kiss he now pressed upon her brow. Tears filled her eyes, 
and they said what she could not say for herself. Truest, 
kindliest feeling, gratitude, she was ready to accord him, but 
of the future, of a deeper feeling, as yet she knew nothing. 


LOVE AND MANUSCRIPT. 


107 


So once more Mr. Beauregard plunged into the fog and the 
rain ; this time with what altered mood ! Manuscript, indeed, 
no longer weighed upon his conscience, but love had taken 
prisoner his heart. 

Whether for good or for evil, time would show. 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


Chapter I. 

THE TABLEAU. 

What celibate has not, at some time or other, come upon an 
irresistible domestic picture that has made him ready straight- 
way to forswear his bachelorhood ? 

What rover amid the pleasant byways of the world but has 
caught sight of a resting-place that seemed made for him ? 
For one brief moment of indecision he halts, spell-bound, the 
toils of welcome Fate are drawn about him ; then, as if fright- 
ened by the very image of happiness invoked just before, he 
frees himself and hurries away. Life is long. Love hath no 
age. Why in such haste to make the choice irrevocable — clip 
for once and for all the wings of freedom ? 

Twenty years ago I happened to be spending what I chose 
to call a holiday at an attractive English watering-place I need 
not name. The only excuse I can make for my laziness is the 
fact that I never undertook to do anything without discovering 
others could do it much better. And I had just enough to live 
upon. Why do misguided relations ever leave a young fellow 
just enough to live upon ? Better knock him on the head at 
once, and have done with it. 

At this stage of what, for want of a better word, I must, 
however, call my career, I was verging on thirty, but, as far as 
I can remember, hardly younger in feeling and views of life 
generally than I am now, I took, I confess it, somewhat airy, 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


109 


I might almost say contemptuous, views of fireside existence at 
that time. I had not the remotest conception of what falling 
in love could mean, and I prided myself upon a fancied supe- 
riority to other men in the matter of sentiment. I had made 
up my mind long ago that destiny — if, indeed, I was to have 
a destiny — would not wear the guise of a woman’s smile. Nev- 
ertheless, no one more enjoyed the society of a sparkling, beau- 
tiful girl than myself, and no one was at more pains to please 
the sex I affected to despise. 

I am, if not wiser, at least more humble-minded than I was 
then, and if I have never lost my dilettante, vagrant habits — 
the habits of an amateur in art, and many other things besides 
— at least I recognize now the more serious aspect of life that 
must be confronted steadily by those who would fain live in- 
deed. 

At this juncture in my affairs, then, the following romantic 
incident happened to me. 

I was staying, as I have just before mentioned, at a seductive 
spot on the south coast, and, as I rode leisurely along a pretty 
road that wound upwards from the town into the bright, green 
country, my eyes were riveted by an engaging family group in 
a garden close by. Garden, did I say? I should rather apply 
the word pleasure-ground to the vast enclosure before me ; its 
undulating swards and flower-beds, alleys and winding walks 
extending over several acres, all in perfect order, and in the full 
glory of midsummer. The wall was so low, and the ascent of 
the road so steep, that I commanded the entire scene, although 
my glance was immediately fascinated by the group in the fore- 
ground. The little picture was simply perfection. Crawling 
along at a snail’s pace, I gazed my fill. Just at this bend of 
the road the garden sloped upwards to a fair and conspicuous 
terrace in front of the mansion, and here were four figures, so 
harmoniously and exquisitely grouped that they looked more 
as if they belonged to a picture or graceful melodrama than to 
real life. 

On the velvety stretch of turf in front of the handsome stone 


110 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


terrace a girl and youth, evidently brother and sister, were 
playing battledore and shuttlecock. Never was dainty game 
more daintily played. As long as I live those figures live too 
— immortal by reason of naive graces, youthfulness, and beauty. 

The girl was one of those delicate, slender types we are more 
accustomed to look for among American beauties than our own 
more robust Saxons, every line, every curve, of that fair face 
and perfect figure being purely cut. Or, perhaps there was 
Parisian ancestry here, since, in the Parisienne of pure race 
you find just the same consummate finish, if I may so express 
myself, of feature and limb, combined with a vivacity and 
grace as little to be described as they are to be imitated. Her 
dress was white, as befitted the season ; and about her dress, 
too, so simple, so perfect, something reminded you of the 
Frenchwoman. Ornaments she wore none, except a crimson 
flower-head, carelessly fastened to the bosom of the dress, and 
something gold that glittered at her throat. Her beautiful 
hair was worn so as to display its abundance to perfection; 
more, indeed, in the style of the great ladies of the olden time 
than now, when many women might, for all we know, be close 
shorn as nuns and Jewish matrons, for all they show of their 
tresses. 

This dainty apparition had a not unworthy counterpart in 
the youthful Antinous, her brother. He was a handsome, 
beardless stripling, about eighteen, and well did the easy un- 
dress permissible in out-door sports become him. He wore, 
indeed, a kind of cricketing costume of sky-blue flannel — no 
better set-off imaginable for a youth with auburn curls, violet 
eyes, and the pink-and-white complexion of a girl. There was 
the promise, however, of a stalwart man about him, and his 
looks were hardly less ingratiating than those of his sister. 
How beautifully they played their game ! How deliciously 
she scolded and made fun of him ! How musical the sound 
of their mingled laughter ! Their names, too, caught my en- 
raptured ear, and they, also, seemed enchanting. 

“ Lionelle, Lionelle !” 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


Ill 


Lionelle, this, Lionelle, that. T heard the pretty half-Eng- 
lish, half-French name a dozen times from the youth’s lips, 
while, in silvery accents that haunt me still, the maiden made 
me equally familiar with her brother’s. 

“Julian, Julian!” she cried again and again, as she chided 
him for his careless play. Lionelle — Julian — rare names! 
euphonious names ! Surely the parentage of this uncommon 
pair must be wholly out of the ordinary way. Glancing tow- 
ards the terrace, I now saw that the two figures seated on the 
rustic bench in no degree resembled the stereotyped nineteenth 
century papa and mamma. 

The man was evidently one of those much-travelled, accom- 
modating, cosmopolitan English gentlemen, who have long ago 
ceased to plume themselves upon their nationality. His dress, 
his looks, proclaimed the citizen of the world ; his speech, also 
— for, as I slowly crawled the hillside along, I heard him ad- 
dress the young couple on the lawn in the purest English, just 
flavored with French. A sweet Italian word, too, came in most 
appropriately, yet unawares. There are certain foreign expres- 
sions for which we have no precise equivalent, and we who 
have broken bread half a lifetime with foreigners cannot resist 
the contagion of words. 

The head of my unknown family was a man still in his 
prime. The handsome face was not without lines of care, but 
the pleasant smile, the cheery voice, the faultless, although care- 
less, dress, betokened easy circumstances. He held in his hand 
a newspaper, but let it fall on his knees while he watched the 
game. 

“ Those children of yours — those children of yours, mamma ! 
Look at them !” he said laughingly ; “ they have been playing 
for an hour, and quarrelling all the time.” 

“They want some one else to play with; that is all,” re- 
plied the lady seated beside him. “What can young people 
do but quarrel — or make love ?” 

I glanced at the speaker with an interest that suddenly deep- 
ened. She had been in her youth a strikingly handsome — nay, 


112 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


a sumptuous — woman ; a woman, moreover, accustomed to a 
certain kind of state. The costly Indian shawl thrown round 
her shoulders, the priceless bit of lace forming her head-dress, 
the aigrette in old Auvergnat jewelry fastening her collar, even 
the old-fashioned blue-white silk stocking, and slippers adorned 
with paste buckles in monogram, betokened circumstances that 
once, at least, had been out of the common way. No mere 
humdrum matron would possess such ornaments or wear them 
every day. Lines of care were written on this face, too, as well 
as on that of her companion. She might, perhaps, have been 
older than her husband ; and in her case, also, age was softened 
and beautified, not only by uncommon fastidiousness in dress, 
but by a look of urbanity quite as rare. 

The group was, altogether, so charming, and the background 
of June flowers and foliage so becoming, that I reluctantly lost 
sight of it by the bending of the road. What was my sur- 
prise and delight, wheh I came to the side-entrance of the man- 
sion, to find in the porch a handsome colored lamp bearing this 
inscription : “ Hydropathic Establishment.” 

The outer doors were flung invitingly open ; the spacious en - 4 
trance-hall, brightened with tropic plants, enticed the passer-by. 

I was free to follow the caprice of the moment, so I straightway 
alighted, flung the reins on my horse’s head, and rang the bell. 


Chapter II. 

AMARANTH. 

Never fairyland more accessible. The vast congeries of 
buildings, with its pleasure-ground, was only just opened as a 
hydropathic establishment. I was as yet the only visitor be- 
sides the family group on the lawn. A dozen chambers were f 
submitted to my choice. Everything I asked for was prom- 
ised without a demur. If any place in the world could spoil al 
grown-up human child it promised to be this. * 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


113 


A sojourn of this kind suited my tastes very well. In these 
charming make-believes, something between a country-house, a 
hotel, and a cosey family-circle, a bachelor may take his fill of 
flirtation and fare none the worse. He may for the nonce 
hang up his hat on the cloak-pin, and feel at home ; is free to- 
morrow to break this flowery chain if domesticities weary ; 
may lose his heart, sure to find it next day. 

And there were other reasons for testing the merits of a new- 
hydropathic establishment so conveniently placed. How pleas- 
ant to be able to recommend a summer holiday resort to my 
tired American friends and other wandering acquaintance, in 
search of repose after long spells of travel ! Not only inclina- 
tion, therefore, but duty, made me ring the bell. 

“ What a sweet spot ! What delightful hosts ! But the 
place wants peopling. It needs life, intrigue, romance.” 

I had engaged my room, paid my bill at the hotel, fetched 
my portmanteau from the town, and there I was, seated by 
Lionelle’s father on the terrace, already a member of the irre- 
sistible family group that had fascinated me an hour or two 
before. 

I answered my agreeable interlocutor absently, for just then 
the graceful figure of Lionelle appeared at the bay-window. It 
seemed to me that all the romance the world could boast was 
there. 

She had dressed for dinner ; in other words, exchanged one 
beautiful white gown for another. This time she wore no art- 
less cambric, such as schoolgirls wear on prize-days, but a close- 
fitting, elaborate dress of rich white satin, its whiteness not of 
snow, rather of the lily, its texture of the softest imaginable. I 
noticed that she still wore a splendid flower-head of deep crim- 
son flower of amaranth on her bosom, and the ornaments — in old- 
gold and enamel — around her slender throat and wrists showed 
the same quaint device of a serpent with its tail in its mouth. 

“ My daughter Lionelle — our new fellow-guest, Mr. Gerald 
Archer,” said my companion, by way of introduction ; himself 
he had already introduced. 


8 


114 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


She descended the steps airily, and, having inclined her head 
to me with a friendly smile, bent low and kissed her father on 
the forehead. Holding one of his hands in her own, she sat 
down beside him. 

“ My Lionelle,” Mr. Bolingbroke began, looking at her fond- 
ly and admiringly, “ persuade Mr. Archer to entice his sister 
here, if he have one. We want, as I have just observed to our 
guest-friend, more human intercourse, more of a little world in 
this big house and solitary pleasance.” 

“ Alas ! I have no sister,” I made reply. 

“ And if you had,” Lionelle answered, “ before she got here 
the spell might be broken, the world might have invaded us. 
But why desire it? You speak of the world, papa, as if it were 
otherwise than hateful.” 

“You are young — in the age of dreams; you need no little 
distractions, no chit-chat, no gossip, no adventures,” Mr. Boling- 
broke said. “ We older folks, having played out the game of 
life ourselves, like to watch others staking their throws.” 

“Then, papa,” Lionelle made answer, a smile following the 
shade that had passed over her exquisitely outlined, sensitive 
face, “ wish again and again and again ; you sighed at break- 
fast, i If only some one would come.’ Already the wished-for 
some one is here !” 

“This daughter of mine cannot understand me,” Mr. Bo- 
lingbroke said, after having smilingly shaken his head at her. 
“My career, Mr. Archer, has not always been the smooth run- 
ning on wheels that it is now. Like other men, I have had to 
contend with — well, with antagonisms of various kinds. Is it 
not natural that, when I have nothing to do but sit and bask in 
the sun, I should relish a little amusement? And what so 
amusing as human nature ?” 

“ I should have said, what so dull ? — with exceptions,” I re- 
plied laughingly. 

At that moftient Mrs. Bolingbroke appeared, having one 
hand in Julian’s arm. The same little ceremony gone through, 
and we were all the best friends in the world. 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


115 


“ Being the first -comers, you will permit us to welcome 
you,” said the lady, pressing my hand with a look of almost 
maternal interest. 4 * It is pleasant, too, to find others possessed 
of as much confidence and hopefulness as ourselves. This 
place was only opened last week.” 

“ We have a passion for new places and new physiogno- 
mies,” put in Julian. 

“That is not quite the way to put it, dearest boy,” Mrs. 
Bolingbroke said. “ We are not rich enough to set up house- 
keeping in this ruinous England, Mr. Archer, and we cannot do 
without society and an agreeable mode of living.” 

It was impossible to be stiff under such circumstances, and 
before dinner was half over we had become as genial as if our 
acquaintance was of long standing. There are certain much- 
travelled English folks possessed of a charming adaptability of 
character, acquired rather than inherent, it tnay be, yet most 
agreeable, nevertheless, and strikingly in contrast with the de- 
meanor of insulars generally. This unique family combined 
French amenity and sparkle with native staidness and reserve. 
I could not put the question, and no one volunteered to en- 
lighten me on the subject of family history. But I felt little 
doubt that a French element had come into play. All four 
spoke correct English, yet I was ready to swear that either Mr. 
or Mrs. Bolingbroke, or both, were of French extraction. Es- 
prit and gayety were there in abundance. I never remember 
having taken part in a merrier little banquet. Yet the cloud of 
care that occasionally passed over the faces of both husband 
and wife made me understand why the company of a stranger 
should be so welcome. Some affliction, some anxiety, made 
long-continued solitude unendurable. There was a shadow that 
even the bright presence of Lionelle and Julian could not dis- 
pel. 

The dinner was very good, and prettily served. 

“But we should fare twice as well did we number fifty,” grum- 
bled poor Mr. Bolingbroke, with the sigh of the gastronome, 
as he glanced at the bill of fare. “ Lionelle, love, do think of 


116 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


it, and write to-morrow to Mrs. Arbuthnot and persuade her to 
come here. And those nice Lavenhams we met at Nice. 
Make them join us. Let us get together a perfect little party.” 

According to my own notion the party was perfect already, 
but I felt obliged to say that I, in my turn, would recommend 
the place. 

“ A good hand at chess, a whist-player, Mr. Archer — eh ?” 
Mr. Bolingbroke added, insinuatingly. “ Find me one of these, 
and I shall be perpetually grateful to you.” 

When we went to the drawing-room a dozen agreeable alter- 
natives, without being proposed, suggested themselves to me. 
Alike billiards, cigars, chess, and bezique, light literature, and 
the piano invited. 

There was no officious amiability, no invitation to amuse my- 
self in any especial line. The Bolingbrokes were not only the 
most delightful people in the world, but exceptionally well 
versed in human nature. Instead of making diversion hateful 
by choosing for me, all went their own way. 

Mr. Bolingbroke took up an evening paper in the drawing- 
room. The brother and sister trifled with the billiard-balls. I 
strolled into the shrubbery and smoked my cigar alone, and 
neither the young man nor the elder intruded on my solitude 
while it lasted. It was one of those almost phenomenal June 
evenings in England, when rose-scents, wafted through open 
casements, and jasmine alleys, lighted up by the glow-worm, 
have almost Southern deliciousness. 

Soon the sounds of a waltz — softly rather than brilliantly 
played — reached me from the terrace. Some happy inspira- 
tion led Mrs. Bolingbroke to the piano, and there — no dancers 
ever more beautifully matched — whirled Lionelle and her 
brother on the sward, set round with white standard roses. I 
was no passionate dancer myself, and perhaps I had hardly 
danced at a dozen balls in my life, but I did long to be in Ju- 
lian’s place now. Not that I could hope to equal the perform- 
ance of Lionelle’s partner. The waltzing of both was so fin- 
ished, yet so easy, that I had never seen anything at all like it, 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


117 


except, indeed, at the opera. And the two harmonized so well 
together — the sister’s lissome form, the brother’s tall, symmetri- 
cal limbs — altogether it was quite a spectacle. The thought 
occurred to me, as I watched them, that those who would waltz 
well should never waltz except with their brothers and sisters, 
in order to have no romance about the occasion, and to be able 
to throw heart and soul into their performance, and make it a 
work of art. 

The dance over, Julian came up to me, laughingly fanning 
himself with his mother’s fan, an exquisite little Louis Seize. 

“ My sister and I find waltzing dull work. We cannot get 
up a quarrel over it, do what we will,” he said ; “ whereas I 
am as much ahead of her at lawn-tennis as she is of me at bat- 
tledore and shuttlecock. It is a perpetual wrangle then.” 

“I am a poor dancer — that is to say, by comparison. Will 
Miss Bolingbroke waltz with me, do you think ?” I replied. 

How could any girl, under the circumstances, refuse? I 
waltzed once, twice, three times with Lionelle, and she certainly 
did not compliment me on my skill. The piquant part of the 
dance, indeed, lay in her openly expressed dissatisfaction with 
myself. Apparently quite indifferent to my admiration of her 
own dancing, she forthwith set herself to improve mine, as if 
the waltz were an all-important part of human life. There was, 
moreover, in every word, look, and action, as far as I was con- 
cerned, a self-abnegation, an impersonality, that puzzled me 
greatly. Why such keen interest in a stranger unless the 
lovely Lionelle, like every ninety-ninth daughter of Eve out of 
a hundred, was a consummate coquette ? 

But this curious contradiction — on the one hand, alertness to 
be kind, sisterly, serviceable ; on the other, reluctance to be 
feminine, freakish, bewitching — made her, in my eyes, a thou- 
sand times more adorable. Sportive she was enough, now sing- 
ing snatches of French or Italian song, now ecstatically placing 
a glow-worm in the heart of a white rose and contemplating it, 
now trying to imitate the notes of a nightingale in the copse 
hard by ; and in all that she did was a seeking after effect that 


118 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


I set down to a nature artistically endowed and cultivated be- 
yond most. She did not seem content to realize the sensuous 
beauty around her, but must ever look for ulterior results, must 
ever be throwing herself into the imagination of others. The 
lazy, languid talk of two, so called forth, as I deemed, by the 
circumstances, was evidently not to her taste. What so easy 
as to get up a little playful sentiment amid the starlit rose- 
alleys, within sight and sound of a placid, rippling sea? 

I could not suppose that coquetry was foreign to her nature, 
and the thought that her heart already belonged to another was 
not to be entertained for a moment. I set down, therefore, the 
unusual indifference of her behavior, for I knew not by what 
other name to call it, to seriousness of character. This singu- 
lar girl, without being, as far as I could discover, in the least 
learned or serious, was yet given to pondering on the subtiler 
aspects of nature and life. It might be also that untoward fam- 
ily circumstances had sobered her temperament in early youth. 

“ Flower of amaranth, serpent self-entwined,” I cried, pick- 
ing up the flower and the bracelet she had let fall in our dan- 
cing-lesson. “Why these emblems of immortality,, Miss Bo- 
lingbroke ? Are you, then, exempt from the ordinary lot of 
humanity ? Can you, then, afford to laugh at Time himself’s 
furrowing care, both so portentous to the rest of us ?” 

I spoke jestingly, as I proffered the rich crimson blossom, 
and begged permission to adjust the bracelet. 

Evidently gratified at having mystified me, and accepting 
my imputation as sweetest flattery, she answered in low, insin- 
uating, suggestive tones : 

“ And why not? Though do not make light of the happi- 
est, the saddest dower that can befall a human being ! Th£ 
dower of those who can never die !” 

I was about to ask the meaning of such Sphinx-like re- 
sponse, when the silvery, anxious voice of Mrs. Bolingbroke 
sounded from within. 

“ Lionelle, my child, the night grows chilly. Come in, I im- 
plore you !” 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


119 


Chapter III. 

“i CANNOT DIE.” 

The Mrs. Arbuthnot spoken of did not come, nor the Laven- 
hams either, but before a week was out we numbered a large 
company, partly, I feel bound to admit, owing to my own offi- 
ciousness. 

Truth to tell, poor Mr. Bolingbroke grew so pensive for want 
of a little society, and talked so incessantly of carrying Lio- 
nelle away, that I grew desperate. I wrote to this friend and 
that, extolling the delightfulness of the place ; I even went so 
far as to invite a former tutor — a curate with seven children — 
for a few days. The poor fellow needed rest, and loved chess 
and croquet to distraction. 

It was the very thing for him, and Mr. Bolingbroke rubbed 
his hands in high spirits. 

“A cassock, a clerical grace before meat, a black coat and 
white stock on the lawn! My dear sir,” he said, turning to 
the proprietor of the new hydropathic establishment, “from 
the day that a clergyman clears his throat at your dinner-table 
the fortunes of this house are made !” 

True enough. No sooner was the Rev. Archibald Craken’s 
name published in the visitors’ -list than public confidence 
strengthened wonderfully. A stranger from some remote planet 
must have supposed the mild-looking Mr. Craken to be a talis- 
manic presence warding off all evils flesh is heir to. 

Not a day now but brought its contingent of valetudinari- 
ans. 

First came a pretty American matron with a bevy of equally 
pretty daughters’ and nieces, needing rest after the tour of Eu- 
rope. In their wake followed two handsome, pure-blooded 


120 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


young Hindoos, students in law, anxious to see a little more of 
English life and manners before returning to their own coun- 
try. Then we had, of course, two or three elderly bachelors of 
both sexes, who wanted some one to chat with — one of the 
paramount needs of human existence — and, lastly, I mention a 
pair of acquaintances of my own — a cheery married couple, 
with hardly a more serious avocation in life than to make 
themselves agreeable, and who had come simply because I 
asked them. 

Within a week, therefore, our numbers had quadrupled, to 
the intense satisfaction of all concerned except myself. There 
are manifold reasons why the members of an artificially com- 
posed family should thus rejoice at any addition. To the ma- 
terialist a well-patronized hotel means a handsome dinner. To 
the whimsical, the possibility of a sympathetic ear. The story- 
teller is sure of an audience, the dawdler of finding his fellow, 
the male coquette, at least the pair of bright eyes, and the 
bored hopes against hope that at last some remedy shall turn 
up for his boredom. 

But my own case was wholly different. I did not care a 
straw about the bills of fare Mr. Bolingbroke studied with such 
minute care from day to day. Lazy as I was, I hated alike 
telling stories or having to listen to them. I needed not the 
society of other good-for-nothings like myself to get through 
the day. And I had never gone a step out of my way for a 
pair of beautiful eyes till I gazed for the first time on Lio- 
nelle’s. 

Lionelle — Lionelle ! The very name haunted me from morn- 
ing till night, as if it belonged to some being inhabiting a 
world of fantasy and dreams, while Lionelle herself seemed, 
as far as I was concerned, to recede further and further from 
the life of every day, in so far as it concerned myself. I could 
not blame the girl’s conduct in the least little thing. It was 
not her fault that during those first days after my arrival we 
were thrown a good deal together, and that such a condition of 
things could not continue. 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


121 


Without putting herself at all forward, Lionelle was now the 
very life and soul of the little society, and she bore her popu- 
larity with a suavity and naturalness that must have disarmed 
envy, if, indeed, any feminine detractors had found their way 
into our Arcadia by the sea. But as yet we were the most 
good-natured set of people that chance could well have assem- 
bled together. 

The astounding part of it all was that, while as much of a 
favorite with her own sex as with mine, she received the hom- 
age of both almost indifferently. Kind, warm-hearted, even to 
affectionateness, sympathetic to a marvellous degree, she yet 
gave the impression of being cut off by some strange fate from 
the ordinary lot of mortals. With all her confidingness and 
power of eliciting response, she remained in a certain sense 
aloof from every one of us. Even her gayety, to my thinking, 
had a touch of unreality and hollowness about it. 

No one seemed to notice this except myself ; perhaps be- 
cause no one else studied her so closely and with such growing 
interest. 

My friend’s wife, Etta Molyneux, once said to her husband 
carelessly, in my hearing : 

“ That pretty Lionelle ! Do you know, Edmund, I feel con- 
fident she has been desperately in love, and has lost her lover. 
Was ever flirtation so perfect and so finished as hers? No girl 
with a heart to lose could flirt in that manner. Or perhaps the 
poor child is consumptive, and feels intuitively that she cannot 
live long.” 

These disconcerting suggestions made me watch Lionelle more 
narrowly than ever, but I could never discover the slightest 
foundation for either. I never caught her in a dreamy, de- 
spondent mood — the mood of a girl who fancies she has nothing 
to live for. Still less could I discern any sign of that dread 
disease which is a Moloch devouring maidens. No excitement 
brought a hectic flush to that softly outlined cheek. Airy, 
sprite-like, dainty creature that she was, she yet broke her fast 
heartily with the rest of us. And when our fellowship num- 


122 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


bered half a dozen children, she would run races with the fleet- 
est of them. 

Those terrible children ! I positively hated the place as soon 
as it became invaded by a host of turbulent youngsters. Lionelle 
was the most wonderful child-charmer I ever knew. No won- 
der that I now felt ready to die of envy. She did not neglect 
any of us, delighting the Hindoo brothers still with an occa- 
sional tete-a-tete in French, waltzing with me at night amid the 
glow-worms and the white roses, playing and singing to the 
elderly folks in the drawing-room, getting up little excursions 
with the Americans and the curates, of whom we now numbered 
five. In fact, she was as much the life of the party as ever. 
But, above all, she devoted herself to the children, and, of course, 
the happier she made them, the faster they came. 

And again Mr. Bolingbroke rubbed his hands. 

“ A little heaven upon earth — eh, Mr. Archer? What place 
is like home without children ? Rosy, cherubic faces, little pat- 
tering footsteps, innocent prattle ; who can live a really human 
life without such sweet influences ?” 

I must say that the poor gentleman looked a little undone 
with the noise and bustle at times, and seemed to get out of the 
way of the cherubic faces and pattering feet whenever he 
decently could. As to Julian, his amiability even exceeded his 
sister’s. Lazy and purposeless although he appeared to be, he 
had the happiest knack in the world of being busily idle. From 
morning till night he did absolutely nothing, and, nevertheless, 
I would almost as soon have been at the treadmill. The poor 
young fellow, simply because he was good-natured and versatile, 
became at everybody’s beck and call. I have seen him drop 
into a garden-chair and steal five minutes’ sleep in the middle 
of the day, utterly worn out by interminable croquet, lawn- 
tennis, or hide-and-seek. It was Mr. Julian this, Mr. Julian 
that, all day long. 

“ What would you have?” he used to say to me in his easy, 
elegant French, when I expressed my astonishment at such 
powers of endurance. “ Like father, like son. My father, as 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


123 


you see, is an incorrigible idler. He has brought me up to his 
favorite profession — that is all.” 

“An amiable one, on my word,” I made reply. “Heaven 
help the dull were it not for the more lightsome spirits that con- 
descend to consort with them.” 

I could get nothing more definite out of the handsome, ac- 
complished Julian, and whenever I tried to draw Lionelle into 
a personal talk she was even more vague and discursive than 
her brother. 

The vagueness about everything connected with this strange 
family struck me more, if possible, than their versatility and un ■ 
exampled sociableness. They seemed to have no past, much 
less did they appear to have a future. 

One day I said, in the midst of a flirtation more serious than 
usual, 

“ Where shall I find you next year, when I make ready to set 
out on the search ?” 

She made sportive evasion : 

“As if life could be resolved into a when and a where! 
And do not human beings change? Would the Lionelle you 
find next year be the Lionelle you know now ?” 

“You are no feminine Proteus, anyhow ; you cannot wholly 
change yourself outwardly,” I said. 

“Discover that, if you can and will,” was the Sphinx-like 
answer, with a charming smile. 

“But, at least, give me a clew,” I entreated. “You say you 
are all wanderers — here to-day, gone to-morrow ; as much at 
home at Chicago as in the Champs Elysees ; you gather vio- 
lets one Christmas Day in Algeria, and another finds you 
sledging towards your plum-pudding at Quebec. For Heaven’s 
sake, then, at least incline your head towards one point of the 
compass — east, west, north, south — all the same to me ; I fol- 
low you.” 

She laughed, slightly scornful. 

“ How easy thus to traverse the globe in imagination ! But 
even the crossing of the Channel, the getting from London 


124 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


to Paris — who ever did as much as that from mere senti- 
ment ?” 

“ Scores of lovers as desperate as myself, I will answer for 
it,” I said, boldly. 

“ Find me one,” laughed Lionelle. Then, as if feeling bound 
to apologize for the turn she had involuntarily given to the 
conversation, she added, in the directest manner: “ You forget 
that I am not my own mistress. Who can answer for such wan- 
derers as my parents?” 

“ They cannot fetter your will,” I retorted. 

The more sibylline this strange girl became the more she 
fascinated me. 

She replied, in a voice as full of mystery as ever, while for a 
moment she fixed her eyes on mine with a penetrating glance. 
They were deep, clear, violet eyes, full of feminine witchery, 
despite the unreadableness she contrived to put into them. 

“ Had I a will,” she whispered, “should I not choose to love, 
wed, grow old, and die, like any other maiden ?” 

Thus was ever the case when we seemed on the brink of 
closest confidence. She broke away from me under some pre- 
tence or other, and could not be brought to resume the thread 
of our discourse. 


Chapter IV. 

FOREBODING. 

Absurd as it may appear, being in perfect health at the 
time, I stayed on at that hydropathic establishment two whole 
months. Its fortunes were now made. The sweetness of the 
place, the liveliness of the society, the handiness of a health 
station near London, and within a few hours’ reach of Paris, the 
excellent cosmopolitan cookery, introduced at the suggestion of 
Mr. Bolingbroke — all these things contributed to a success quite 
unprecedented in the history of such ventures. For my own 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


125 


part, I felt convinced that the graces and accomplishments of 
the Bolingbroke family had more to do with the flourishing 
condition of the house than all the aforementioned causes put 
together. I, for one, was rooted to the spot, unable to tear my- 
self from Lionelle. 

It was odd that, although she carried on so many graceful flirta- 
tions, none were of a nature to make me in the least degree jeal- 
ous, and none, as far as I could discover, had come to a climax 
except in my own case. The young Hindoo barristers, the 
curates, the half-dozen middle-aged idlers, each, in turn, waltzed, 
strolled, sang, or played cricket with Lionelle ; but she contrived 
so nicely to restrict flirtation within its proper limits that, 
while all these men paid homage to her, not one had been per- 
mitted to fall in love. Even more creditable to her finesse was 
the fact that, on the other hand, the women had not become 
jealous. She was so sympathetic, so ready to be taken into 
feminine confidence, so apparently free from vanity, that only 
the really ungenerous or malicious could possibly have picked a 
quarrel with her. As a rule, moreover, very young maidens do 
not frequent valetudinarian resorts; and, except the pretty 
American damsels alluded to, who were sure to get plenty of 
admiration wherever they went, and needed not begrudge 
Lionelle’s share, she had few possible rivals. Our ladies were, 
for the most part, elderly spinsters or sober, matrons, only too 
glad to have the sparkling, caressing vision of my Lionelle ever 
before them. 

My Lionelle ! 

Mine, as yet, by virtue of adoration only. Into the future I 
hardly dared to peer. 

I did, however, begin to put to myself in secret a few of those 
questions that naturally occur to a man suddenly bent upon 
marriage. Could the income that had never been too much for 
one suffice for two — for a household? Would the much- 
travelled, versatile, brilliant Lionelle be happy by an ordinary 
mortal’s fireside? Was I wise to throw in my fortunes with those 
of a family addicted to roving — perhaps not unacquainted with 


126 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


adventure ? Lastly, and above all, was I not bound to fathom 
the meaning of those eerie words of hers — to find out if she 
were something more than a mere paragon of beauty and ex- 
cellence? Was she phenomenal among her sex — in a subtiler 
sense separated from the rest of humankind by virtue of super- 
natural endowments or unexampled destiny ? Was she, indeed, 
exempt from the wonted fate of humankind, doomed to per- 
petual youth, undying loveliness, an existence that ended not 
after the fashion of others ? 

It may seem strange that I should go to the length of asking 
myself such questions as these ; entertain, even for a moment, 
propositions so diametrically opposed to every-day experience 
and the accepted order of things. But the unusual and mys- 
terious had ever charms for me. From my youth upwards the 
dominating characteristic of a careless, versatile nature had been 
a tendency to penetrate into the regions of the unknown, to lift 
the veil from the inscrutable, to unriddle the Sphinx-like aspects 
of life. From the first, moreover, a certain indefiniteness, an 
airy unreality, about Lionelle had fascinated me even more than 
her faultless outward self — she was rather faultless than lovely 
— and her dazzling gifts. She seemed hardly to have a solid, 
tangible past, much less to look forward to any clearly marked- 
out future. Even her domestic relations savored of the unreal. 
Devoted, affectionate, as she was to Mr. and Mrs. Bolingbroke, I 
doubted that she was their daughter ; nor could I at times be- 
lieve that she was anything more than a sister by adoption of 
the handsome, agreeable, and accomplished, albeit somewhat 
cynical, artificial Julian. If, then, not of such kith and kin, 
what was her lineage? I allowed my fancy to run wild, and 
accorded her an origin such as that of the Undines and half- fauns 
of romance, those unsubstantial, ineffably lovely creations of the 
poet and romancer we believe in and become enamoured of as if 
they were real personages. 

But to be mated with a fateless child of immortals, to wed a 
being whose feet touched our familiar globe without belonging to 
it, to have to wife a fay, an elf-child, wearing the guise of a mere 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


127 


woman — that was wholly another matter. Swayed, therefore, 
by two inclinations, two resolves, one moment wishing one thing, 
the next drawing back, I was at the same time prey to another 
kind of terror. I could not help entertaining suspicions that 
Lionelle would take sudden flight before my mind was made 
up. Some day we should all wake up to find the incomparable 
Bolingbroke family vanished, gone forever ; without warning and 
without farewell, returned to that unknown whence they had 
come. Lionelle once thus lost to me, I felt convinced that I 
should never recover her again. 

And not vague suspicions only pointed to such a catastrophe. 
Ever on the alert in so far as Lionelle was concerned, I had 
gathered from a stray remark here, a cursory hint there, that 
departure impended. 

Keeping my own counsel, and affecting a well-studied indif- 
ference, I now watched the movements of the Bolingbrokes 
night and day. 

Exactly what I had foreseen took place. As a rule, there 
are never any very late or very early departures in these valetudi- 
narian resorts. People go away comfortably in the middle of 
the day, giving chance-made acquaintances an opportunity of 
saying adieu and exchanging little courtesies. But I felt sure* 
that none of us were to have as much as an “ Au revoir” from 
Lionelle’s family. 

Whenever wheels should be heard grating the gravel walk at 
midnight or early dawn, the sound would be sure to indicate a 
stolen march on the part of the Bolingbrokes. The merest 
bagatelle — a trifle in itself so absurd that only a man in my 
desperately inquisitive case would have noticed it — let me into 
their secret. 

In this admirably conducted house, where grace was never 
sacrificed to parsimony, certain economies were practised quite 
consistent with a liberal sumptuary scale. 

Thus, while our table-napkins, each placed in a numbered 
plated ring, were regularly changed three times a week, I had 
noticed that in the case of visitors about to depart on the next 


128 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


day no exchange was made. Having made sure of this fact, I 
steadfastly observed the table-napkins. 

Sure enough, there came a Tuesday evening when the rest of 
the company had, as usual, clean napkins, while those of the 
Bolingbroke party remained the same. As the napkins were 
never made a show of, but with neatest foldure slipped into the 
rings, I gave myself credit for no little ingenuity in making the 
discovery. And I knew without being told that Lionelle was 
to be taken away from me that very night. 


Chapter V. 

VALEDICTION. 

The evening was one of rare beauty and sultriness, while, 
from a sociable point of view, it seemed as if it would never 
come to an end. Immediately after dinner the entire company 
adjourned to the pleasure-grounds, even the invalids venturing 
out to watch the moon rise. The youthful and venturesome 
had betaken themselves to the wide sweep of heath stretching 
above the establishment towards the sea, and a few strolled 
down to the sea-shore. It was the rule of the house that guests 
should retire to their chambers and lights be put out in the re- 
ception-rooms by eleven o’clock. Ten had already struck, and 
my chance of securing a tete-a-tete with Lionelle seemed slen- 
derer than ever. 

Now she was waltzing with a recent adorer, an elderly post- 
captain, who had returned to England, after years of active ser- 
vice, to cure a liver- disorder and presumably settle in life; 
now making the round of the flower-garden with a devoted ad- 
herent of the other sex, an old lady who had taken the greatest 
fancy to her; now dancing with Julian, the galliard, a bewitch- 
ing old Spanish dance, for the general benefit. Last of all, I 
heard her well-trained, rather than fine, voice leading a glee that 
suddenly delighted our ears from the extreme end of the inner 
garden. 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


129 


Never had I seen this incomparable girl exchange one role 
for another with such grace and dexterity. Queen of the draw- 
ing-room, mistress of the art of coquetry and persiflage, spark- 
ling, finished, brilliant, no part seemed beyond the limit of her 
capacities, and each was played to perfection. There was only 
one quality missing — that of spontaneousness. It never seemed 
to me that Lionelle was moved by impulse, like any other girl. 
This absence of spontaneity, combined with a certain studied 
faultlessness — the cold impersonality before alluded to — more 
than anything else, distinguished her from the rest of her sex. 
She lived, moved, breathed among us ; but in one sense — the 
sense of careless, common enjoyment — belonged to us not at 
all. At last I missed her on a sudden, and realized, with a 
quickened beating of the heart, that the eagerly desired moment 
was come at last. 

She was hiding herself from her little world of hangers-on 
in order to grant me a final audience. 

It was the amiable custom in our little Arcadia for one guest 
occasionally to fete the rest. To-night, for no reason in par- 
ticular, except, perhaps, that the unwonted charm and serenity of 
the weather inspired a feeling of jollity, light, sparkling wine 
and dainty cates were served to all by our post-captain, in the 
dining-room. 

Nothing, perhaps, so completely absorbs the mental faculties 
as the behavior of a bottle of champagne at the critical moment 
of uncorking. How will the wine go off ? Will it go off at all? 
Where will it go to ? Such are the questions that, for the mo- 
ment, keep out every other problem from the spectator’s mind. 

Public attention thus happily diverted, I now stole away from 
the rest of the company, sure, at least, of ten minutes with 
Lionelle. I knew well enough where I should find her. There 
was a certain little summer-house in which I had caught the 
weary girl napping many a time before now. No more than 
Julian could she win everybody’s heart without paying des- 
perate scot for such excessive popularity. Sometimes, as I 
scrutinized her handsome and youthful, yet slightly worn feat- 

9 


130 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


ures, and graceful figure, often limp with sheer bodily prostra- 
tion, I felt convinced that the girl was just killing herself with 
abnormal exertion, wearing out alike body and mind by this 
perpetual strain. 

Yet she would never countenance such an imputation — never 
snatch a brief interval of repose except in secret. On this es- 
pecial occasion, however, something in the shape of presenti- 
ment told me that it was not repose and solitude she sought 
now, but a final understanding with myself — a last word with 
her lover ere she quitted him forever. 

I knew very well that she was not in love with me, that she 
did not love me at all in the accepted sense of the word. I 
could hardly boast of having received any show of favor at her 
hands at all. Yet, despite the habitual indifference, aloofness, 
impersonality of her manner, I perceived, or thought I per- 
ceived, a touch of real feeling — sisterly, friendly, it might be, 
yet real feeling, nevertheless. She had been invariably kind 
to me, and had seemed to understand my sympathy, my lurk- 
ing compassion, for what I could but take to be an unwelcome 
lot. It was evident that, in some way or other, Mr. and Mrs. 
Bolingbroke made capital out of their daughter’s gifts, and 
traded upon her powers of fascination. 

I had judged rightly. True enough, she was there. The 
moonlight played upon her white silk dress and gleaming or- 
naments — the brooch and bracelets of serpents self-entwined in 
gold and enamel. Once more, too, she wore her symbolic 
flower, her bloom of amaranth. The crisis I felt impending ; 
her silence, her beauty, gave me courage. 

“ Lionelle !” I cried, and the words that had trembled on my 
lips for days — nay, weeks past — were out at last, spoken beyond 
recall. “ Lionelle, stay with me. Consent to become a mere 
mortal’s wife !” 

We were alone and secure from eavesdroppers, at least for a 
moment. Emboldened by her passiveness, and growing coura- 
geous under the desperate fear of losing her foreve:*, I added a 
wild word more. 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


131 


“ You say you cannot grow old and die, like other maidens. 
At least you can love as well as they. Retain, then, your 
vaunted immortality if you will. Only love me, let me love 
you for this little life — this brief, brief, mortal span.” 

She smiled very pensively and kindly, and, without a shade 
of coquettishness, much less emotion, made room for me on 
the rustic bench beside her. 

As we sat thus, the moon shining full upon us, I saw how 
pale she was, how more than weary. My love became all at 
once tinged with strangest pity. I longed now to be let into 
the secret of her mysterious lot as much for her sake as my 
own, to be permitted to wrest her from it, to give her repose „ 
and heap tendernesses upon her so long as I lived. Her very 
collectedness, and the easy cordiality of her manner, inspired 
confidence. The more approachable she seemed, the less out- 
wardly lover-like I permitted myself to appear, so unwilling 
was I to check her growing trustingness and nip her confi- 
dences in the bud — much nearer than any lover I seemed, in 
this sweet, adorable nearness of mere comrades. 

“You must know it,” I went on. “This existence of empty 
pleasure and ephemeral popularity is undermining your health, 
killing you, in spite of that exemption from mortal doom you 
hint at. Let me snatch you from such a career. Marry me 
without more ado,” I added, caressingly, “then we will steal 
away to some sweet spot, there to live for ourselves and each 
other.” 

She shook her head, that weary little head, and as on a broth- 
er’s breast it now drooped to mine — lay there for a blissful 
moment pillowed to sweetest rest. 

“ Gerald,” she began — “ we had once or twice called each 
other by our Christian names in bewilderingly frolicsome mo- 
ments of our out-door play — “ Gerald, even my friendship can 
be yours for a day, an hour, only ; love I have none to give. 

I am going away. You will soon lose your poor Lionelle, and 
you must never try to find her, never, as long as you live.” 

“ Nay,” I retorted lightly, yet under a jesting word was hid 


132 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


a fast resolve. “ The locomotive — if not love’s wings — may be 
the privilege of all. You cannot prevent me from purchasing 
a rail way -ticket, no matter with what configuration of letters it 
is stamped.” 

She now roused herself from her lethargic attitude, and, sit- 
ting up, held my hand fast, while she spoke rapidly and eagerly, 
as if in terror lest time should steal a march upon us. 

“ If you value my peace of mind, if you care for me at all, 
you will retract those words ; you will give your promise never 
to try and discover me, never to follow me, in whichever direc- 
tion I go.” 

I listened with lips unsealed. What conceivable right had 
she to demand such a sacrifice of me ? How could I rely upon 
myself to keep such a compact if wrought upon to make it? 
The farther this beautiful vision of Lionelle receded from my 
reach, the more passionately I clung to its vesture skirts. 

“You are wilfully shutting your eyes to the truth?” I said, 
for a moment letting outraged feeling have its way ; then, sub- 
dued to a softer mood, overcome by my great love for her, I 
gathered her little hands to my lips, and kissed them again 
and again. “No, Lionelle ; it is not so,” I cried. “My secret 
was yours long ago. You know how I love you. Listen. This 
worldling of yours never cared for any one or anything in the 
wide world till he learned to know r you. Bid me not lose you 
altogether.” 

“ My poor G-erald !” she began, and in her turn she took my 
hands and pressed them to her cold lips. “ I am linked to the 
strangest fate against my will. If, indeed, you were to track 
my footsteps and follow me to the world’s end, you would be no 
nearer happiness. You could not belong to me any more than 
if we were at opposite poles. I am in reality as much of a 
stranger to you as if we had never watched the glow-worm 
under the rose together !” 

There ran through the speech, mingled with much sadness, 
even tinged with despair, a playfulness that gave me courage to 
ask more. The comrade was uppermost in Lionelle’s thoughts, 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


133 


not the lover. Perhaps in him she might yet be won over to 
confide. And I still clung to the shadow of a hope. 

“ At least tell me why you impose such unnatural conditions ? 
Who and what are you, that you can thus afford to toy with 
human affection, and make a jest even of mortality 2” 

“ Ah, those are questions — questions I may not answer ; but 
rest assured of one thing,” she answered, “ I am not the light- 
hearted, sportive girl you take me to be. Against my will, 
against my conscience, I am compelled to act a part.” 

“ Free yourself, then, from such odious thraldom !” I cried. 
“The door stands wide. Escape is easy. Take the honest 
hand, offering deliverance, held out to you.” 

She smiled, and putting a hand on each of my shoulders, 
bent her face towards my own as she answered, her voice gather- 
ing force and persuasiveness, her eyes wearing a strange expres- 
sion of distance, yet endearment : 

“ I would love you, dear, if I could, but I have no love, no 
life to give. This much I may tell you. Love is dead within 
my breast, the strange lot that wins your pity is but the price 
of having loved too well ! A task is before me, a goal I must 
win, and when I have done happiness and affection can never be 
my reward.” She added, with sudden animation, “ I rebel against 
my destiny, and would fain be free and careless like any other 
maiden. Yet in one sense I am privileged beyond most, for,” 
she went on, now throwing into her words something of a real, 
passionate individuality, for the first time during our acquaint- 
ance giving me the impression that unutterably deep feeling 
underlay her words, “ my real, my best self, the true Lionelle, 
will remain youthful and winning forever. This poor beauty 
of mine you praise so much, strange as it may seem to you, 
can never fade.” 

I looked at her with a growing amazement that she did not 
fail to discern. Quick as lightning she read my inmost thought. 

“ Do not set down these words to unreason. I am no more 
moonstruck than yourself. It is as I say. Some day, perhaps, 
you may understand. My lot is to renounce, to suffer, yet with 


134 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


marvellous compensation. I have a dual existence, a second 
self — the one to become careworn, spiritless, the other never to 
be touched by the hand of Time.” 

Her cold, passive hand lay in my own, but responded not to 
my lover-like clasp; she realized what I was suffering for her 
sake — that I could tell without a word from her; but she had 
no hope to hold out to me, no* consolation to give. And once 
more she reiterated the request that a few minutes before 
seemed so cruel, so unbearable, but that now hardly moved me 
from my lethargic despair. 

“ Let me go, then, as I have come ; for though you should 
seek me, you would but find a phantom, a hollow image ! the 
Lionelle you love — never !” 

She leaned forward, and I understood the gesture. A kiss 
laid upon her beautiful lips was to seal my reluctant word. I 
held her for a moment in my arms, but no heart beat in warm 
response to my own. The mouth I kissed was cold. I was 
about to whisper one desperate appeal more, her face still 
touched mine, when the silvery tones of Mrs. Bolingbroke 
reached us from the lawn. 

“ Lionelle, my imprudent darling, the night is chill. Pray 
come in at once.” 


Chapter VI. 

RETURN. 

Twenty years had glided by — a goodly portion out of man’s 
allotted span. The idler of thirty was an idler still. With 
travel, dilettante tastes, and, let me say at least this much on 
my own behalf, some desultory work for the public weal, I had 
contrived to occupy myself so that the two decades were come 
and gone as a dream. 

Youth but a thing of yesterday, and already age had come ! 

I had never fallen in love again, and holding no strait-laced 
notions as to the duty of every son of Adam to become the 
head of a family, remained a bachelor. 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


135 


From the date of that moonlit night and reluctant promise 
wrung from me with a kiss, Lionelle disappeared from my ken 
as completely as if we were denizens of separate planets. She 
ever retained her old place in my heart, and her hold on my irn. 
agination. Fickle and desultory in all else, here I was constant. 

Perhaps my faithfulness had root in vanity. Perhaps I re- 
mained true to the ideal of my youth because I had never found 
another woman I would fain have made my wife. 

It was a superlative July day. On just such an afternoon, 
twenty years before, leisurely riding along a country road that 
led upwards from the sea, I had first caught sight of Lionelle. 
And now, so strange chance would have it, I visited once more 
the same pleasant seaside town, and suburban country dotted 
with villas — the very scene of enchanted days so long past, yet 
unforgotten. 

I had been invited by a rich Australian acquaintance, recent- 
ly settled in England, to join a party of friends about to assem- 
ble in his country-house. 

“We possess everything in the way of material comfort that 
the heart of mortal can desire,” wrote my host. “ A mansion 
fitted up in what my upholsterer assures me is the newest style, 
conservatories filled with tropic plants, croquet-lawns, horses 
and carriages, well-trained servants, the smartest page-boy, the 
most ladylike maids, the most gentlemanly footmen imagina- 
ble. All that we now want, and hardly know how to set about 
obtaining, is a little good society. We are now going to mus- 
ter a few friends together, and shall try to give, with their aid, 
an out-of-door party or two. So come as soon as you can, 
and stay as long as you will, in order to aid us unsophisticated 
bush-folk in this our first plunge into the vortex of fashionable 
life. My wife’s solicitations accompany my own.” 

There was a frank bonhomie about this letter that disarmed 
criticism, and having thankfully enjoyed my friend’s society 
during my bush travels, I felt bound to accord him all the good 
offices he asked at my hands now. 


136 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


I accepted the invitation, therefore, and, by an odd coinci- 
dence, the date of my arrival exactly corresponded with the 
only unforgetable one I could boast of in life’s calendar — that 
day on which the vision of Lionelle had dazzled me for the 
first time. 

Having sent up my luggage, I rode leisurely in the direction 
of Appleby House. As I left the bay and the town — doubled 
in size and importance since I had visited it — I found that the 
destination indicated to me by my host must take me close to 
the hydropathic establishment of romantic memory. 

True enough, there rose the solid old mansion in gray free- 
stone from its sombre entourage of veteran ilexes; there were 
the shrubberies in which I had played hide-and-seek with 
Lionelle ; and there — I could not be mistaken — peeped out 
from the surrounding greenery the tiny summer-house in which 
1 had sealed my fateful promise with a kiss. It occurred to 
me all at once to pull out my friend’s letter, for this seemed the 
very place described to me as Appleby House. 

I found my conjecture perfectly correct. The hydropathic 
establishment, then, had gone the way of so many other similar 
ventures. The bath-houses had been turned into stables — their 
original use — the bright colored-glass lamps, advertising the 
place, removed, and the old-fashioned country-house in every re- 
spect had resumed its normal aspect — that of a home of rich 
gentlefolks. Strangely enough, therefore, I was about to spend a 
few days amid surroundings consecrated to the one love, solitary 
uncommonness, and crowning sorrow of an every-day mortal’s 
existence. And to the one mystery ! I had no clearer conception 
now than then of what Lionelle meant by those enigmatic ut- 
terances on the subject of undying youth and a dual existence. 
And as the scenes of that last passionate episode once more 
passed before my eyes, I could explain to myself why I had 
been able to keep my word, and consent to let Lionelle hide 
herself from me forever. Ah ! had her conduct been different 
that night when we exchanged a last valediction, should I now 
be able to boast of a promise inviolably kept ? I almost shuddered 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


13V 


as I recalled her impersonal smile, her ice-cold kiss. I was con- 
tent to believe that all was dark and mysterious concerning her. 
I hugged the notion that once, during my humdrum, prosaic ex- 
istence, I had touched the shores of the impalpable and unfamil- 
iar. We all accept mystery as one of the conditions of human 
existence. Why, then, should we feel such astoundment when 
brought face to face with phenomena we cannot explain in the 
human as well as the inert globe ? Why might not Lionelle 
be a wholly exceptional being, a creature whose outward frame 
was not doomed to decay ? 

A bend in the road brought me suddenly in full view of the 
well-remembered terrace and smooth-shaven lawn where I had 
seen Lionelle and Julian playing battledore and shuttlecock in 
their dazzling youth and beauty, a full score of years ago. 

But could I believe the evidence of my senses? Were these 
images, now impacted on ray retina, substantial, living forms, 
or the phantoms of a disturbed fancy ? Was I, indeed, to be 
ever within these precincts the victim of enchantment and 
wizardry ? 

There, hardly changed, if changed at all — there, in the unde- 
ceiving July sunshine, standing out against the green foliage 
bright and clear as in a picture, I beheld the same group that 
had fascinated my gaze twenty years before. 

Lionelle, in her white gown, played battledore and shuttle- 
cock with the bright Julian as in days gone by. Mr. Boling- 
broke and his wife, perhaps a trifle aged, but bland, animated, 
gracious as of old, looked on from the rustic seat. The sister’s 
clear, sweet voice, the brother’s mettlesome reply, reached me 
where I paused, as the pair playfully quarrelled over their 
game. I heard the subdued laughter of Mrs. Bolingbroke, her 
husband’s gently uttered comments; but without pausing to 
catch more, I gave my horse the rein and rode on. 

A stableman, evidently belonging to the house, happened to 
stand by the portico ; the hall door stood open. So merely 
giving my name as I alighted, I hastened through the drawing- 
room towards the group on the lawn. Mr. Bolingbroke rose 


138 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


to greet me with the slightly artificial smile, and easy, yet per- 
haps studied, grace I remembered so well. 

“ Our host will be here presently ; he bade me welcome you 
in his place,” he began, with extreme suavity, and evidently not 
in the least recognizing me ; but I broke forth with frank, al- 
most brutal impatience : 

“Good Heaven! then it is only I who have grown old? I 
do, indeed, behold a group of immortals !” 


Chapter VII. 

UNRAVELLING S. 

My interlocutor looked more than puzzled, and I was at the 
same time conscious of a thrill of shocked surprise electrify- 
ing the little group. The first solution of the mystery occur- 
ring to all was evidently that a maniac had effected his entrance 
into the house surreptitiously. Did, indeed, a transient halluci- 
nation take possession of me ? Had some collyrium tempora- 
rily blinded my vision to the solid realities of things ? Certain 
it is that as I glanced from one to the other I verily believed 
myself among immortals in a new, strange sense, creatures of 
flesh and blood, like myself, but untouched by the hand of 
Time. 

I went straight up to Lionelle. The sun shone in my eyes ; I 
could not see her face clearly, but the slender form, the fair 
hair beautifully arranged in a coronet, the pale, finely cut feat- 
ures, the exquisite finish of dress — all these were hers, and hers 
unchanged. 

She had, then, been true to her word, she had not grown 
old! 

“ Lionelle,” I cried, taking her hand, and drawing her a little 
apart, “ you at least cannot have forgotten me. Not mine, like 
yours, the privilege of perpetual youth ; but in one respect I 
am unchanged — I, your lover of twenty years ago, Gerald Arch- 
er, love you still !” 


A GROUP OP IMMORTALS. 


139 


She drew back with a startled look ; the beautiful head was 
averted in dismay. 

Mr. Bolingbroke, however, had either caught the sound of my 
name, or had been unexpectedly reminded of my former self 
by something in voice, look, or manner, for he now approached 
me quite cordially. 

“ Mr. Gerald Archer !” he said, smiling his old bland smile, 
“ how well I remember the name now ! The fellow-guest we 
were bidden to expect, and — I cannot be mistaken ! — a fellow- 
guest of my own in this very house years and years ago.” 

He nodded to the little group of immortals on the terrace. 

“ Go on with your game, my dears,” he said to the players 
of battledore and shuttlecock. “ Resume your embroidery, my 
love,” he added to the smiling, elegantly dressed matron beside 
him. “Meantime my old acquaintance, Mr. Archer, will take 
a turn with me in the shrubberies.” 

He put his arm within my own, and led me towards the 
outer garden. 

I assented without so much as looking back. 

I realized already that whatever revelations were in store for 
me, I had not found my Lionelle. 

“ I now recall every circumstance connected with our for- 
mer acquaintance,” he began : “ your kind interest in the hydro- 
pathic establishment, your prolonged stay, your unconcealed 
admiration of the young lady accompanying me — my pseudo- 
daughter. It is not astonishing that you should express some 
surprise at finding us all here again — to use your own words — 
a veritable group of immortals.” 

He laughed, not without underlying irony. Then he grew 
friendly, even confidential. 

“Very likely I look wonderfully young for a septuagenarian, 
but age and infirmities tell upon a man, in spite of the perru- 
quier’s skill and the staymaker’s cunning — never a greater fal- 
lacy than to fancy women the sole patrons of corsets and 
whalebone ! Could you see me off duty, in undress, so to speak, 
you would find a wrinkled, decrepit, haggard, aged man.” 


140 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


We had now reached the extreme limits of the upper garden, 
and he turned into the little summer-house in which I had 
taken such passionate leave of Lionelle. Bringing out a couple 
of cigarettes, he handed me one, and motioned me to be seated. 

“ True, the youthfulness of my companions is not simulated. 
But, you see, they are mere duplicates — replicas of the charm- 
ing associates of your youth. Since we lost sight of each other, 
indeed, how many blooming daughters and accomplished sons 
have I not had, how many devoted partners, ladylike better- 
halves ! My profession, you see, necessitates it.” 

“You are here professionally?” I asked, beginning to see my 
way through the maze. 

“ Precisely ; that pretty domestic tableau, for instance, you 
came upon just now has been arranged and rearranged, I dare 
wager, five hundred times. It is my trump-card, and has made 
the fortune of scores of boarding-houses, set things going for 
dozens of unsophisticated parvenus. You would never conceive 
the pains it has cost me. Every detail has been gone into over 
and over again, down to my wife’s knitting pins.” 

Again he laughed his odd, worldly, almost sardonic laugh, and 
went on : 

“ You, of course, took me and my little troupe for just what 
we appeared to be twenty years ago — an amiable family, of 
cosmopolitan tastes, in quest of change and recreation. I will 
let you at last into a curious secret. I dare say that you have 
found out for yourself, long ago, that humanity may be classi- 
fied under two heads: the first, consisting of those who can 
amuse themselves ; the second, of those who cannot. The call- 
ing of men like myself supplies the needs of the latter class. I 
have floated hydropathic establishments, pensions de famille , 
hotels, country-houses of new-made millionaires, in all parts of 
the civilized globe ; but, while entertaining and enriching others, 
I remain a pauper. Were old Horatio Bolingbroke to be 
gathered to his fathers to-morrow, he would hardly leave the 
wherewithal to provide his remains with Christian burial.” 

“I am very sorry to hear this,” I said. 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


141 


While making this confession, Mr. Bolingbroke had allowed 
himself to shake off his forced elasticity of manner, to forget 
his society smile — wrinkles were allowed to have full play, the 
trim, upright figure to fall into its natural bend. I saw before 
me a careworn, feeble wreck of former days. 

“ My company,” he went on, “ my artificial family, is a very 
expensive one, and extortionate to boot. The salaries of these 
people, my dear sir, increase every year, and you little know 
how much else I have to contend with. These soft-voiced 
duennas, these playful sons and daughters, I assure you, quarrel 
like cat and dog behind the scenes, and make life intolerable 
to me.” 

“ But Lionelle ?” I asked. “ Talk of her.” 

“ Ah, she had nothing in common with the mercenary herd 
I allude to ; she ever treated me kindly and becomingly,” said 
the old man, wiping away a genuine tear. Then, with a sud- 
den touch of the theatrical, he added : “ As long as I live, were 
it to cost me my last morsel of bread, I shall place an immor- 
telle on that sweet girl’s tomb.” 

“ She is dead, then ?” I asked, for the moment unmindful of 
the intervening years, unmindful also of her mystic words and 
inexplicable innuendoes, dwelling only on her beauty, sprightli- 
ness, and grace, so fresh in my memory still. 

He replied, “ Lionelle is dead. She died a few years after 
the date of our sojourn here in your company, and died, as I 
fully believe, on the eve of a splendid triumph.” 

New light now flashed on my mind. I began to discern 
what Lionelle’s playful vaunt might mean. She had been, then, 
an actress, and, throwing herself heart and soul into ideal char- 
acters, might well boast exemption from the ordinary doom, in 
a certain sense, of a bright, an enviable immortality. The ra- 
diant impersonations into which the born artist throws herself — 
the Juliets, the Rosalinds, the Ophelias of the poet’s creation — 
may not these fittingly wear emblematic flowers of amaranth, 
serpent self-entwined, since they live forever? I realized now 
Lionelle’s impersonal gayety, her aloofness from every-day feel- 


142 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. 


ing and passion — how, while seeming to take part and lot in 
ordinary existence, her inner life, her individuality, had nothing 
in common with us. But the dark tragedy she had hinted at, 
the secret sorrow, the undying grief — what were these? I al- 
lowed Mr. Bolingbroke to prattle on. 

“ Triumph was undoubtedly in store for her, but a short-lived 
artistic career at best,” he continued. “ Such slender, fair girls 
have not the coarser stuff of the artist in them. And my poor 
Lionelle was very unhappy — she had given her heart to a vil- 
lain ! Her father, an incorrigible gamester — a kind-hearted 
man, for all that, ruined this fellow, Lionelle’s lover, in play. 
The poltroon cast her off, and, like the brave girl she was, she 
set herself the task of earning enough money to pay back the 
debt, thus vindicating her father’s honor and nobly revenging 
herself. Death overtook the dear visionary ere her task was 
fairly begun.” 

Just then my old friend, catching sight of our host approach- 
ing, pulled himself together, put on his set smile, and became 
the Mr. Bolingbroke of every day. 

“ Ah,” cried the bluff, cheery master of the house, breaking 
in upon our confidence; “you have made my guest feel at 
home already, I see. Mr. Bolingbroke — Mr. Gerald Archer.” 

The formal introduction over, my Cagliostro, vacating his 
chair, made room for our host, and quitted us “ to join the la- 
dies,” he said, smiling pleasantly. 

“ A most agreeable, well-informed, polished old fellow that,” 
said my Australian. “No acquaintance — a make-believe. The 
fact is” — and here the unsophisticated millionaire broke into a 
hearty laugh at his own expense — “ my wife and I are so com- 
pletely at sea in the matter of entertaining people and the ways 
of society in general, that, at the suggestion of the upholsterer, 
we have got a professional master of ceremonies to set us go- 
ing. You will see how he manages our first croquet-party, to 
take place to-morrow. My belief is that it will go off capi- 
tally.” 

And once more he laughed. I also could not resist a smile, 


A GROUP OF IMMORTALS. ' 


143 


although my heart was heavy within me. Some selfishness 
was mingled with the sorrow ; at least Lionelle had never be- 
longed to another, I could call her mine still. 

The lawn-party — and how many other parties? — went off 
well, but when Mr. Bolingbroke’s mission was fulfilled, and the 
term of his engagement expired, I carried him off to my coun- 
try home. I was not very rich, but I could afford to give the 
worn-out old man all that he needed — a fire to warm him, a 
cover laid for him, a bed to lie on for the remainder of his 
days. 

For several years he has enjoyed the coveted privilege of 
having no one to entertain but himself. Long may it be his ! 
The decayed, infirm, but invariably amiable, courteous gentle- 
man is all I have to remind me of my beautiful Lionelle — my 
Group of Immortals ! 


THE REBUKE AMID ROSES. 


Through the rose-scented valleys of Kensington Gardens 
strolled Frederick Vivian westward, bound to one of those per- 
fect little dinners for which we are never too late. There are 
dinners, as there are projects of marriage, capable of being in- 
definitely put off, yet sure to come to pass in the end. This 
especial one was indeed to combine a proposal on the part of 
Frederick Vivian — all the more reason for his dilatory mood. 
A bachelor of thirty-five, he had at last made up his mind to 
marry, and his hostess of this evening had promised him the 
desired opportunity. At the small but elegant house of his 
friend Doring and his charming wife, he was promised an after- 
dinner tete-a-tete with a spirited and beautiful girl just intro- 
duced to the world of London, and just the girl he would fain 
have for a wife. She was Australian born and bred, daughter 
of an official of high rank, and although gracious and self-pos- 
sessed, as became a governor’s daughter, a very wild rose of 
fresh, ingenuous, girlish grace and feeling. Her Australian 
birth and bringing up, moreover, lent a certain novelty to at- 
tractions of themselves out of the common way. This sweet, 
gay, innocent girl, possessed of tact and quickness, combined 
with dignity and reserve, could but realize a man’s ideal of 
marriage and fireside happiness. So, at least, thought Freder- 
ick Vivian, as he now walked gayly through the rose-alleys tow- 
ards Palace Gardens and destiny. What an evening! Not a 
discord made itself audible in this London world of freshly 
watered flower-beds, sweet-smelling shrubberies, and rich, um- 
brageous shadow. Perhaps nothing imparts a more luxurious 


THE REBUKE AMID ROSES. 


145 


feeling than such a scene. Exotics, smooth-shaven lawns, and 
woodland solitudes, islanded from the life and movement of 
the great city, so near, yet apparently so far away. The Park 
and the Gardens were growing more and more deserted, for it 
was the hour of almost universal dinner, yet not a fragrant 
nook was without its loiterer, not a bench without its occupant, 
and over all bent a warm, amber sky — golden frame to the brill- 
iant picture. 

Vivian, as we have said before, was in no hurry. Those in- 
comparable little dinners of six guests at Mrs. Doring’s — when 
the wife is a paragon the world is apt to ignore the husband, 
however excellent — were so conveniently arranged that they 
could take place half an hour sooner or later without any detri- 
ment to the dishes. This elasticity was, indeed, the great charm 
of Mrs. Doring’s cosey gatherings. There was time enough to 
get through the business of the day, however arduous, and of 
any day it was the climax and crowning enjoyment. 

Vivian, although a man of the world, was genuine. He could 
thoroughly enjoy, and not only gratifications of a material, but 
also of an intellectual kind. He relished alike good company* 
good literature, the best in art. In fact he was just the man 
any affectionate woman of the world would desire to have as n 
son-in-law. A girl’s future could safely be intrusted to such 
keeping, was the usual maternal verdict. He sauntered on 
lazily till he reached a cool nook familiar to him, where ho 
might enjoy yet a few minutes more of the captivating hour. 

The bench under sweet shadow he knew of was already oc- 
cupied by a poor, but decently clad woman, who had that mo- 
ment hobbled towards it on crutches. He was about to seat 
himself at the other end, when an ejaculation of surprise and 
dismay rose to his lips. 

“Good heavens, Lilian !” he cried, as he glanced at the wom- 
an ; “ what has brought you to this ?” 

Thus addressed, she looked at her interlocutor, and into her 
face also now came a look of recognition. 

She was a pale, delicately formed, slender creature, and it was 
IQ 


146 


THE REBUKE AMID ROSES. 


easy to see, in spite of the cratches and unbecoming garb, that 
she was still young, and had been beautiful. Vivian gazed and 
gazed, positively reddening. It was not only the unsightly 
crutches that forced upon his mind a contrast the most strik- 
ing and painful conceivable, but also her dress and appearance 
generally. What struck him more than anything about her 
looks and garb, contrasting them, as he could not help doing, 
with a dazzling vision of another, yet the self-same, Lilian of a 
few years back, was the sight of her leather shoes. 

Those little feet of Lilian’s, those glancing, twinkling, fairy 
feet — he had never forgotten them. Now they were shod in 
what looked like poor-house shoes, uncouth, of thick leather, 
and laced up with a leathern string such as ploughmen use. 
Her dress, too, if a trifle superior to the poor-house uniform, 
was not that of a working woman who buys her own clothes. 
The cotton gown, the light woollen kerchief worn over the 
shoulders, the neat-fitting, dark straw hat, all told their own 
story to eyes not usually very discerning in such matters. Lili- 
an’s dress, spotless, decent, and certainly neither unseasonable 
nor uncomfortable, was that of one dependent, if not on the 
poor law, on private charity or benevolence. 

But if metamorphosed as to outward appearance, still more 
was she in look, and especially in expression. 

The Lilian he remembered had been a thing of sparkles, 
smiles, childish ecstasies, a veritable smile incarnate ! Now the 
fair, small features and beautiful eyes wore a cold, passionless, 
automatic look. Suffering and privation, or it might be some 
form of cold, Calvinistic theology, had evidently hardened her, 
for it did not escape his observation that a little manual of de- 
votion was stuck in her girdle. She had hobbled forth from 
some home under the direction of pious women, to breathe the 
cool air, and, perhaps, stare at the brilliant equipages and gay 
dresses, reminding her of a world in which she had lived once. 

But there was no capacity for enjoyment, hardly sensibility 
to the mere pleasure of summer sights and smells, to be de- 
tected in her face. Bare life was there, with the stern neces- 


THE REBUKE AMID ROSES. 


147 


sity of food, air, shelter ; the woman, the creature that smiles, 
weeps, loves, and looks forward, was dead. 

Full of compassion, Vivian’s hand was in his pocket swift as 
lightning, and he would fain have thrust some gold pieces in 
her own, but she let the money fall to the ground, with a cold, 
hard look. 

“ What brought me to this?” she said, without the slightest 
personality in the bitter tone of her reproach, speaking much 
as if it were of some one dead, and long since insensible to suf- 
fering. . “You, Frederick Vivian, ask me such a question?” 

Then she looked away from him towards the rose-bushes, 
smiling a scornful, almost cruel smile. 

Vivian’s eyes remained riveted to the harsh picture, but while 
he looked another rose in its place. 

His memory ran back ten years, when this same Lilian had 
for a brief moment flashed before him, an incarnation of frol- 
icsome loveliness and gayety. One especial scene became now 
as clearly imaged before his mind as when it had been no mere 
recollection, but the warm, living reality. He saw then, as he 
sat near this sickly girl in crutches, a radiant creature, so fairy- 
like in her movements as hardly to touch the ground. She 
came dancing towards him, holding in one small, fair hand an 
antiquated musical instrument, which she thrummed merrily 
with the other, her feet keeping wild time to the air. 

It was impossible to forget the vision of those fairy feet as 
they had twinkled before his eyes then. Encased in the finest 
imaginable silk stockings of creamy white, embroidered with 
gold clocks, and in shoes that gleamed also as if of gold, those 
little feet of Lilian’s seemed veritable sprites to intoxicate and 
bewitch. 

She wore, moreover, a dress of pale-blue shot silk, in wonder- 
ful contrast to her hair — not yellow hair, but of a hue more 
uncommon by far — light-brown, having gold edges and corus- 
cations ; all else was of a piece with that fair hair waving about 
her brow and throat. So airy, radiant, and captivating the 
vision of the slender, dancing girl in blue, that but for a cer~ 


148 


THE REBUKE AMID ROSES. 


tain indescribable carelessness and abandon of look and man- 
ner, she might have furnished an artist with an ideal of Joy, 
if indeed any could have caught the sparkling look of mere 
enjoyment, the almost frenzied expression of delight. Yes! 
many and many a time since he had said to himself, when on 
the verge of being enticed by other loveliness, “ How cold and 
inanimate compared to my blue Bacchante !” 

He had regretted keenly that this distracting thing could 
have no part or lot with all that was honest, manly, outspoken 
in his existence, and that even such visions and a mind at one 
with itself were incompatible. 

So, although it was only a secret memory he had ventured to 
keep of the glowing picture, it had never faded from his mem- 
ory, and the sight of the wan, lame girl beside him now had 
called it up in all its first vividness once more. 

With regard to his own share in such a life he had never, 
till now, felt a pang of reproach. ’Twas all a matter of course 
and custom. More’s the pity ! The world and the human be- 
ings in it would never be perfect, forsooth. 

It was impossible, however, for any good-natured, kindly dis- 
posed man — and certainly Frederick Vivian was all these — to 
help feeling moved by the spectacle before him and the recol- 
lections it called up — all the loveliness gone, the grace and the 
wild enjoyment, the bare existence that was left. He felt just 
as sorry, perhaps more so, as a lover of animals would be at the 
sight of some once peerless pet overtaken by decrepitude and 
uncomeliness. What so natural for him as to say, “ I am very 
sorry for you, Lilian ; pray, believe how sorry I am ” ? 

The girl’s thin hands, into which he w r ould fain have thrust 
his gift of money, remained unclosed. Indifferently, without 
any malice, without the faintest approach to gratitude, she saw 
the gold pieces fall to the ground. There they lay ; and the 
fastidious, elegantly gloved gentleman beside her was compelled 
to stoop down and pick them up one by one. 

Even that action, mortifying as it would seem, did not call 
up any retributive look in the pale, worn face, with its cold 


THE REBUKE AMID ROSES. 


149 


blue eyes watching him. The girl merely said, her rebuke 
sounding hard and impersonal, as if issuing from a grave : 

“Be sorry for yourself, not for me.” 

But in spite of the rebuke, the feeling of caste, of well-being, 
moreover, and the sense of triumph that is born of perfect 
health, vanquished even Vivian’s dire humiliation. The con- 
trast between her position and his own came out too painfully 
to be resisted. She so forlorn, so fragile, so hopeless ; he in 
full bloom of life and prosperity, and, so he had thought but a 
quarter of an hour ago, on the threshold of a career to be sat- 
isfactory in all respects. 

He made another attempt to force the money upon her. 

“You must need little comforts,” he urged, eagerly and awk- 
wardly. “ I would have befriended you long ago had I learned 
of your misfortunes.” 

So saying, he would fain have slipped the gold coins into 
the pocket of her print apron, from which protruded a coarse 
pocket-handkerchief. But she put a thin, ungloved hand over 
the aperture. 

“Honest bread is mine as long as I live,” she said, in the 
same unmoved voice, “a bed to lie on, and clothes to wear, but 
of woman’s giving. ’Tis but natural that women should feel 
for one another.” 

Then she added, looking at him with an expression he would 
find hard to forget : 

“ Keep your money, but for better uses henceforth than the 
buying of a human soul.” 

So saying, she turned her face away. His presence had not 
in the least agitated her. It was evident that he might sit there 
as long as he chose. She had nothing more to say to him. 
He had no power to trouble or soften her. As much of his exist- 
ence as had been linked with hers was dead, joy also, and hate. 
Life could never now mean anything but a routine of frugal 
comfort, austere duty, and such enjoyment as this — liberty to 
enjoy the fresh, sweet air, and a sense of being provided for in 
her feebleness and isolation. 


150 


THE REBUKE AMID ROSES. 


Frederick Vivian left her without a word. He, had, indeed 
none at hand at all adequate to the occasion. But, as he con- 
tinued his walk, it was with a step less elastic than before. 
His talk at that cosey round dinner-table flagged. Not his 
hostess’s wit, not the high girlish spirits of the wild rose from 
Australia, could now animate him. There was everything to 
pat him at ease and make him enjoy himself, if indeed it were 
always easy to enjoy that self of ours ! The little banquet was 
as perfect as out-of-the-way cookery, choicest flowers, and crys- 
tal could make it. The fellowship of six could not be improved 
upon. He had never thought the pretty Australian so engag- 
ing before. As she sat beside him, fresh and sweet as the 
roses on her bosom and in her hair, he felt more and more 
convinced that here was the very wife of his ideal. And he 
fancied that he discovered evidence of confidence and liking 
on the part of the girl he had made up his mind to marry. 
But when the much-desired opportunity for a tete-a-tete came, 
he felt himself grown, not nervous and shy, certainly, but re- 
luctant and vacillating. The vision of a pallid woman in a cot- 
ton gown, hobbling on crutches, seemed to shut him out from 
the bright image by his side. He was dumb. 

“ What ails you ?” said his hostess, when the party, except 
for Vivian, had broken up. “ I am quite disappointed that you 
did not keep your promise to me, as I am sure you have not 
done, to propose to my pretty, pretty Amy.” 

Then she looked at him with an arch expression, half satiri- 
cal, half reproving, and added : 

“ Is she then not good enough for you ?” 

Vivian took up his hat to go, and all he said was, with a 
strange, nervous smile : 

“ What if I thought the other way ?” 


THE END. 


SOME POPULAR NOVELS 

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS Hew York. 


The Octavo Paper Novels in this list may be obtained in half-binding [leather backs 
and pasteboard sides], suitable for Public and Circulating Libraries , at 25 cents 
per volume , in addition to the prices named below. The 32 mo Paper Novels may be 
obtained in Cloth, at 15 cents per volume in addition to the prices named below. 

For a Full List of Novels published by Harper & Brothers, see Harper’s New 
and Revised Catalogue, which will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any ad- 
dress in the United States, on receipt of Ten cents. 


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BAKER’S (Rev. W. M.) Carter Quarterman. Illustrated 8vo, Paper $ 60 

Inside: a Chronicle of Secession. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

The New Timothy 12mo, Cloth, $ 1 50 ; 4to, Paper 

The Virginians in Texas 8vo, Paper 

BENEDICT’S (F. L.) John Worthington’s Name 8vo, Paper 

Miss Dorothy’s Charge , 8vo, Paper 

Miss Van Kortland 8vo, Paper 

My Daughter Elinor 8vo, Paper 

St. Simon’s Niece 8vo, Paper 

BESANT’S (W.) All in a Garden Fair 4to, Paper 

BESANT & RICE’S All Sorts and Conditions of Men 4to, Paper 

By Celia’s Arbor. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

Shepherds All and Maidens Fair 32mo, Paper 

“ So they were Married !” Illustrated 4to, Paper 

Sweet Nelly, My Heari’s Delight 4to, Paper 

The Captains’ Room 4to, Paper 

The Chaplain of the Fleet 4to, Paper 

The Golden Butterfly 8vo, Paper 

’Twas in Trafalgar’s Bay 32mo, Paper 

When the Ship Comes Home 32mo, Paper 


BLACK’S (W.) A Daughter of Heth. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25 ; 

A Princess of Thule 12mo, Cloth, 1 25; 

Green Pastures and Piccadilly. ,12mo, Cloth, 1 25 ; 

In Silk Attire 12mo, Cloth, 1 25; 

Judith Shakespeare. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, 125; 

Kilmeny 12mo, Cloth, 1 25; 

Macleod of Dare. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, 1 25 ; 


8vo, Paper 
8vo, Paper 
8vo, Paper 
8 vo, Paper 
4to, Paper 
8vo, Paper 
8vo, Paper 
4to, Paper 
8vo, Paper 
4to, Paper 
4to, Paper 
4to, Paper 


Madcap Violet 12mo, Cloth, 125; 

Shandon Bells. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, 125; 

Sunrise 12mo, Cloth, 1 25 ; 

That Beautiful Wretch. Ill’d... 12mo, Cloth, 125; 

The Maid of Killeena, and Other Stories 8vo, Paper 

The Monarch of Mincing-Lane. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 12mo, Cloth, $1 26 ; 8vo, Pa. 

Three Feathers. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, $1 25; 8vo, Paper 

White Wings. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, 125; 4to, Paper 

Yolande. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, $1 26 ; 4to, Paper 


75 

25 

75 

75 

75 

60 

80 

60 

20 

20 

50 

25 

20 

10 

10 

20 

40 

20 

25 

35 

50 

50 

35 

20 

35 

60 

15 

60 

20 

15 

20 

40 

60 

60 

50 

20 

20 


2 Harper cb Brothers’ Popular Novels . 


PBIOK 

BLACKMORE’S (R. D.) Alice Lorraine 8vo, Paper $ 50 

Christo well 4to, Paper 20 

Clara Vaughan 4to, Paper 15 

Cradock Nowell 8vo, Paper 60 

Cripps, the Carrier. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Erema 8 vo, Paper 60 

Lorna Doone 12mo, Cloth, $1 00 ; 8vo, Paper 25 

Mary Anerley 16mo, Cloth, 100; 4to, Paper 15 

The Maid of Sker 8vo, Paper 50 

Tommy Upmore 16mo, Cloth, 50 cents; 16mo, Paper 35 

4to, Paper 20 

BRADDON’S (Miss) An Open Verdict 8vo, Paper 35 

A Strange World 8vo, Paper 40 

Asphodel 4to, Paper 15 

Aurora Floyd 8vo, Paper 40 

Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 4to, Paper 15 

Birds of Prey. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Bound to John Company. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Charlotte’s Inheritance 8vo, Paper 35 

Dead Men’s Shoes 8vo, Paper 40 

Dead Sea Fruit. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Eleanor’s Victory 8vo, Paper 60 

Fenton’s Quest. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Flower and Weed 4to, Paper 10 

Hostages to Fortune. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

John Marchmont’s Legacy 8vo, Paper 50 

Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Just as I Am 4to, Paper 15 

Lost for Love. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Mistletoe Bough, 1878. Edited by M. E. Braddon 4to, Paper 15 

Mistletoe Bough, 1879. Edited by M. E. Braddon 4to, Paper 10 

Mistletoe Bough, 1884. Edited by M. E. Braddon 4to, Paper 20 

Mount Royal 4to, Paper 15 

Phantom Fortune 4to, Paper 20 

Publicans and Sinners 8vo, Paper 60 

Strangers and Pilgrims. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Taken at the Flood 8vo, Paper 50 

The Cloven Foot 4to, Paper 15 

The Lovels of Arden. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

To the Bitter End. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Under the Red Flag 4to, Paper 10 

Vixen 4to, Faper 15 

Weavers and Weft 8vo, Paper 25 

Wy llard’s Weird 4to, Paper 20 

BREAD-WINNERS, THE 16mo, Cloth 1 00 

BRONTE’S (Charlotte) Jane Eyre. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth 1 00 

4to, Paper, 15 cents; 8vo, Paper 40 

Shirley. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, $1 00; 8vo, Paper 60 

The Professor. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth 1 00 


Harper & Brothers’ Popular Novels. 


3 


- PBIOK 

BRONTE’S (Charlotte) Villette. Ill’d . 12mo, Cloth, $1 00 ; 8vo, Paper $ 50 
BRONTE’S (Anna) The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Ill’d... . 12mo, Cloth 1 00 

BRONTE’S (Emily) Wuthering Heights. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth 1 00 

BULWER’S (Lytton) Alice 8vo, Paper 35 

A Strange Story. Illustrated . ...12mo, Cloth, $1 25 ; 8vo, Paper 50 

Devereux 8vo, Paper 40 

Ernest Maltravers 8vo, Paper 35 

Godolphin 8vo, Paper 35 

Kenelm Chillingly 12mo, Cloth, $1 25; 8vo, Paper 50 

Leila 12mo, Cloth, $1 00; 8 vo, Paper 25 

My Novel 2 vols. 12mo, Cloth, 2 50 ; 8vo, Paper 75 

Night and Morning 8 vo, Paper 50 

Paul Clifford 8vo, Paper 40 

Pausanias the Spartan 12mo, Cloth, 75 cents ; 8vo, Paper 25 

Pelham 8vo, Paper 40 

Rienzi 8vo, Paper 40 

The Caxtons 12mo, 'Cloth, $1 25 ; 8vo, Paper 60 

The Coming Race 12mo, Cloth, 100; 12mo, Paper 50 

The Last Days of Pompeii 8vo, Paper, 25 cents ; 4to, Paper 15 

The Last of the Barons 8vo, Paper 50 

The Parisians. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, $1 60; 8 vo, Paper 60 

The Pilgrims of the Rhine 8vo, Paper 20 

What will He do with it ? 8 vo, Paper 75 

Zajp.opV 8vo, Paper 35 

COLLINS’S (Wilkie) Novels. Ill’d Library Edition. 12mo, Cloth, per vol. 1 25 
After Dark, and Other Stores. — Antonina. — Armadale. — Basil. — 
Hide-and-Seek. — Man and Wife. — My Miscellanies. — No Name. 

— Poor Miss Finch. — The Dead Secret. — The Law and the Lady. 

— The Moonstone. — The New Magdalen. — The Queen of Hearts. 

— The Two Destinies. — The Woman in White. 

Antonina 8vo, Paper 40 

Armadale. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

“ I Say No ”.16mo, Cloth, 50 cts. ; 16mo, Paper, 35 cts. ; 4to, Paper 20 

Man and Wife 4to, Paper 20 

My Lady’s Money 32mo, Paper 25 

No Name. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Percy and the Prophet 32mo, Paper 20 

Poor Miss Finch. Illustrated 8vo, Cloth, $1 10; 8vo, Paper 60 

The Law and the Lady. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

The Moonstone. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

The New Magdalen 8vo, Paper 30 

The Two Destinies. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 35 

The Woman in White. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

CRAIK’S (Miss G. M.) Anne Warwick 8vo, Paper 25 

Dorcas 4to, Paper 15 

Fortune’s Marriage 4to, Paper 20 

Godfrey Helstone 4to, Paper 20 

Hard to Bear 8vo, Paper 30 

Mildred 8vo, Paper 30 


4 


Harper & Brothers’ Popular Hovels . 


CRAIK’S (Miss G. M.) Sydney 4to, Paper $ 15 

Sylvia’s Choice 8vo, Paper 30 

T wo W omen 4to, Paper 1 5 

DICKENS’S (Charles) Works. Household Edition. Illustrated. 8vo. 

Set of 16 vols., Cloth, in box 22 00 


A Tale of Two Cities.Paper $ 50 
Cloth 1 00 

Barnaby Rudge Paper 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 

Bleak House Paper 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 
Christmas Stories. ...Paper 1 00 
Cloth 1 50 
David Copperfield . . . Paper 1 00 
Cloth 1 50 

Dombey and Son Paper 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 
Great Expectations... Paper 1 00 
Cloth 1 50 

Little Dorrit Paper 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 


Martin Chuzzlewit Cloth 1 50 

Nicholas Nickleby Paper 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 

Oliver Twist Paper 50 

Cloth 1 00 

Our Mutual Friend Paper 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 

Pickwick Papers Paper 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 

Pictures from Italy, Sketches by 
Boz, American Notes ...Paper 1 00 
Cloth 1 50 

The Old Curiosity Shop... Paper 75 

Cloth 1 25 

Uncommercial Traveller, Hard 
Times, Edwin Drood.. .Paper 1 00 
Cloth 1 


Martin Chuzzlewit.... Paper 1 00 Cloth 1 60 

Pickwick Papers 4to, Paper 20 

The Mudfog Papers, &c 4to, Paper 10 

Mystery of Edwin Drood. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 25 

Hard Times 8vo, Paper 26 

Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy 8vo, Paper 10 

DE MILLE’S A Castle in Spain. Ill’d. 8vo, Cloth, $1 00 ; 8vo, Paper 50 

Cord and Creese. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

The American Baron. Hlustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

The Cryptogram. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 75 

The Dodge Club. Hlustrated... .8 vo, Paper, 60 cents ; 8vo, Cloth 1 10 

The Living Link. Illustrated. ...8 vo, Paper, 60 cents ; 8vo, Cloth 1 10 

DISRAELI’S (Earl of Beaconsfield) Endymion 4to, Paper 15 

The Young Duke 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; 4to, Paper 15 

EDWARDS’S (A. B.) Barbara’s History 8vo, Paper 50 

Debenham’s Yow. Illustrated*... 8 vo, Paper 50 

Half a Million of Money 8vo, Paper 60 

Lord Brackenbury 4to, Paper 15 

Miss Carew 8vo, Paper 35 

My Brother’s Wife .*. 8vo, Paper 25 

EDWARDS’S (M. B.) Disarmed 4to, Paper 15 

Exchange No Robbery 4to, Paper 15 

Kitty 8 vo, Paper 35 

Pearla 4to, Paper 20 

ELIOT’S (George) Novels. Library Edition. Ill’d . 1 2mo, Cloth, per vol. 1 25 

Popular Edition. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, per vol. 75 

Adam Bede. — Daniel Deronda, 2 vols. — Felix Holt, the Radical. — 
Middlemarch, 2 vols. — Romola. — Scenes of Clerical Life, and 
Silas Marner. — The Mill on the Floss. 


Harper & Brothers' Popular Novels. 


5 


PRICE 

ELIOT’S (George) Amos Barton 32mo, Paper $ .20 

Brother Jacob. — The Lifted Veil 32mo, Paper 20 

Daniel Deronda 8 vo, Paper 50 

Felix Holt, the Radical 8vo, Paper 50 

Janet’s Repentance 32mo, Paper 20 

Middlemarch 8vo, Paper 75 

Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 32mo, Paper 20 

Romola. Illustrated $vo, Paper 50 

Silas Marner 12mo, Paper 20 

Scenes of Clerical Life 8vo, Paper 50 

The Mill on the Floss 8vo, Paper 50 

FAR JEON’S An Island Pearl. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 30 

At the Sign of the Silver Flagon 8vo, Paper 25 

Blade-o’-Grass. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 30 

Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 35 

Golden Grain. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 35 

Grif 8 vo, Cloth 85 

Great Porter Square 4to, Paper 20 

Jessie Trim 8vo, Paper 35 

Joshua Marvel 8vo, Paper 40 

Love’s Victory 8vo, Paper 20 

Shadows on the Snow. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 30 

The Bells of Penraven 4to, Paper 10 

The Duchess of Rosemary Lane 8vo, Paper 35 

The King of No-Land. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 25 

GASKELL’S (Mrs.) Cousin Phillis 8vo, Paper 20 

Cranford 16mo, Cloth 1 25 

Mary Barton 8vo, Paper, 40 cents ; 4 to, Paper 20 

Moorland Cottage 18mo, Cloth 75 

My Lady Ludlow 8vo, Paper 20 

Right at Last, &c 12mo, Cloth 1 50 

Sylvia’s Lovers 8vo, Paper 40 

Wives and Daughters. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

GIBBON’S (C.) A Hard Knot 12mo, Paper 25 

A Heart’s Problem 4to, Paper 10 

By Mead and Stream 4to, Paper 20 

For Lack of Gold 8vo, Paper 35 

For the King 8vo, Paper 30 

Heart’s Delight 4to, Paper 20 

In Honor Bound 8vo, Paper 35 

Of High Degree 4to, Paper 20 

Robin Gray 8vo, Paper 35 

Queen of the Meadow 4to, Paper 15 

The Braes of Yarrow 4to, Paper 20 

The Golden Shaft 4to, Paper 20 

HARDY’S (Lady) Daisy Nichol 8vo, Paper 35 

(Miss) Friend and Lover 4to, Paper 15 

(Thos.) Fellow-Townsmen 32mo, Paper 20 

A Laodicean. Illustrated 4to, Paper 20 


6 Harper & Brothers' Popular Novels . 


PRICE 

HARDY’S (Thos.) Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid 4to, Paper $ 10 

HARRISON’S (Mrs.) Helen Troy 16mo, Cloth 1 00 

Golden Rod 32mo, Paper 25 

HAY’S (M. C.) A Dark Inheritance 32mo, Paper 15 

A Shadow on the Threshold 32mo, Paper 20 

Among the Ruins, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

At the Seaside, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Back to the Old Home 32mo, Paper 20 

Bid Me Discourse 4to, Paper 10 

Dorothy’s Venture 4to, Paper 15 

For Her Dear Sake 4to, Paper 15 

Hidden Perils 8vo, Paper 25 

Into the Shade, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Lady Carmichael’s Will , 32mo, Paper 15 

Lester’s Secret 4to, Paper 20 

Missing 32mo, Paper 20 

My First Offer, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Nora’s Love Test 8vo, Paper 25 

Old Myddelton’s Money 8vo, Paper 25 

Reaping the Whirlwind 32mo, Paper 20 

The Arundel Motto 8vo, Paper 25 

The Sorrow of a Secret 32mo, Paper 15 

The Squire’s Legacy 8vo, Paper 25 

Under Life’s Key, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Victor and V anquished 8 vo, Paper 25 

HOEY’S (Mrs. C.) A Golden Sorrow 8vo, Paper 40 

All or Nothing 4to, Paper 15 

Kate Cronin’s Dowry 32mo, Paper 16 

The Blossoming of an Aloe 8vo, Paper 30 

The Lover’s Creed 4to, Paper 20 

The Question of Cain 4to, Paper 20 

HUGO’S (Victor) Ninety-Three. Ill’d. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75 ; 8vo, Paper 25 

m m *i il _ n _ _ tih i ~ n * r\ 


JAMES’S (Henry, Jun.) Daisy Miller 32mo, Paper 20 

An International Episode 32mo, Paper 20 

Diary of a Man of Fifty, and A Bundle of Letters 32mo, Paper 25 

The four above-mentioned works in one volume 4to, Paper 25 

Washington Square. Illustrated 16mo, Cloth 1 25 

JOHNSTON’S (R. M.) Dukesborough Tales. Illustrated 4to, Paper 25 

Old Mark Langston 16mo, Cloth 1 00 

.LANG’S (Mrs.) Dissolving Views... 16mo, Cloth, 50 cents ; 16mo, Paper 35 

LAWRENCE’S (G. A.) Anteros 8vo, Paper 40 

Brakespeare 8vo, Paper 40 

Breaking a Butterfly 8vo, Paper 35 

Guy Livingstone 12mo, Cloth, $1 50 ; 4to, Paper 10 

Hagarene 8vo, Paper 35 

Maurice Dering 8vo, Paper 25 

Sans Merci 8 vo, Paper 35 

Sword and Gown 8vo, Paper 20 


Harper dfc Brothers' Popular Novels . 


7 


LEVER’S (Charles) A Day’s Ride , 8vo, Paper 

Barrington 8vo, Paper 

Gerald Fitzgerald 8vo, Paper 

Lord Kilgobbin. Illustrated 8vo, Cloth, $1 00; 8vo, Paper 

One of Them..., 8vo, Paper 

Roland Cashel. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

Sir Brook Fosbrooke 8vo, Paper 

Sir Jasper Carew - 8vo, Paper 

That Boy of Norcott’s. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly 8vo, Paper 

The Daltons 8vo, Paper 

The Fortunes of Glencore 8vo, Paper 

The Martins of Cro’ Martin 8vo, Paper 

Tony Butler 8vo, Paper 

LILLIE’S (Mrs. L. C.) Prudence. Ill’d. 16mo, Cloth, 90 cts. ; Paper 

MCCARTHY’S (Justin) Comet of a Season 4to, Paper 

Donna Quixote 4to, Paper 

Maid of Athens 4to, Paper 

My Enemy’s Daughter. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

The Commander’s Statue 32mo, Paper 

The Waterdale Neighbors 8vo, Paper 

MACDONALD’S (George) Alec Forbes 8vo, Paper 

Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood 12mo, Cloth 

Donal Grant 4to, Paper 

Guild Court 8vo, Paper 

Warlock o’ Glen warlock 4to, Paper 

Weighed and Wanting 4to, Paper 

MULOCK’S (Miss) A Brave Lady. Ill’d. 12mo, Cl., 90 cents. ; 8vo, Paper 

Agatha’s Husband. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 8vo, Paper 

A Legacy 12 mo, Cloth 

A Life for a Life 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 8vo, Paper 

A Noble Life 12mo, Cloth 

Avillion, and Other Tales 8vo, Paper 

Christian’s Mistake 12mo, Cloth 

Hannah. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 8vo, Paper 

Head of the Family. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 8vo, Paper 

His Little Mother 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 4to, Paper 

John Halifax, Gentleman. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 4to, Paper 

Miss Tommy 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; Paper 

Mistress and Maid 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 8vo, Paper 

My Mother and I. Illustrated. .12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 8vo, Paper 

Nothing New 8vo, Paper 

Ogilvies. Illustrated 12 mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 8 vo, Paper 

Olive. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 8 vo, Paper 

The Laurel Bush. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 8vo, Paper 

The Woman’s Kingdom. Ill’d. . . 12mo, Cloth, 90 cts. ; 8vo, Paper 
Two Marriages 12mo, Cloth 


PRICK 

$ 40 
40 
40 
50 
50 
75 
50 
50 
25 
60 
75 
50 
60 
60 
50 
20 
15 
20 
50 
15 
35 
50 

1 25 
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60 
35 
90 
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90 
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90 


8 Harper & Brothers' Popular Novels. 


TKIOB 

MULOCK’S (Miss) Unkind Word, and Other Stories 12mo, Cloth $ 90 

Young Mrs. Jardine 12mo, Cloth, $1 25; 4to, Paper 10 

MURRAY’S (D. C.) A Life’s Atonement 4to, Paper 20 

A Model Father 4to, Paper 10 

By the Gate of the Sea 4to, Paper, 15 cents ; 12mo, Paper 15 

Hearts 4to, Paper 20 

The Way of the World 4to, Paper 20 

Val Strange 4to, Paper 20 

NORRIS’S (W. E.) A Man of His Word, &c 4to, Paper 20 

Heaps of Money 8vo, Paper 15 

Mademoiselle de Mersac .....4to, Paper 20 

Matrimony 4to, Paper 20 

No New Thing 4to, Paper 25 

That Terrible Man 16mo, Paper 25 

Thirlby Hall. Illustrated 4to, Paper 25 

OLIPH ANT’S (Laurence) Altiora Peto . 4to, Paper, 20 cts. ; 16mo, Paper 20 

Piccadilly 16mo, Paper 25 

OLIPHANT’S (Mrs.) Agnes 8vo, Paper 50 

A Son of the Soil 8vo, Paper 50 

Athelings 8vo, Paper 50 

Brownlows 8vo, Paper 50 

CaritA Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Chronicles of Carlingford 8vo, Paper 60 

Hays of My Life 12mo, Cloth 1 50 

For Love and Life 8vo, Paper 50 

Harry Joscelyn 4to, Paper 20 

He That Will Not when He May 4to, Paper 20 

Hester 4to, Paper 20 

Innocent. Illustrated 8 vo, Paper 50 

It was a Lover and His Lass 4to, Paper 20 

Lady Jane 4to, Paper 10 

Lucy Crofton 12mo, Cloth 1 50 

Madam 16mo, Cloth, 75 cents; 4to, Paper 25 

Madonna Mary 8vo, Paper 50 

Miss Marjoribanks 8vo, Paper 60 

Mrs. Arthur 8vo, Paper 40 

Ombra 8vo, Paper 60 

Phoebe, Junior 8vo, Paper 35 

Sir Tom 4to, Paper 20 

Squire Arden 8vo, Paper 50 

The Curate in Charge 8vo, Paper 20 

The Fugitives 4to, Paper 10 

The Greatest Heiress in England 4to, Paper 10 

The Ladies Lindores 16mo, Cloth, $1 00; 4to, Paper 20 

The Laird of Norlaw 12mo, Cloth 1 50 

The Last of the Mortimers 12mo, Cloth 1 50 

The Perpetual Curate 8vo, Paper 60 

The Primrose Path 8vo, Paper 60 

The Story of Valentine and his Brother 8vo, Paper 50 


Harper <& Brothers' Popular Novels. 


9 


PBIOB 

OLIPHANT’S (Mrs.) The Wizard’s Son 4to, Paper $ 25 

Within the Precincts 4to, Paper 15 

Young Musgrave 8vo, Paper 40 

PAYN’S (James) A Beggar on Horseback 8vo, Paper 35 

A Confidential Agent 4to, Paper 15 

A Grape from a Thorn 4to, Paper 20 

A Woman’s Vengeance 8vo, Paper 35 

At Her Mercy 8vo, Paper 30 

Bred in the Bone 8vo, Paper 40 

By Proxy 8vo, Paper 35 

Carlyon’s Year 8vo, Paper 25 

For Cash Only . 4to, Paper 20 

Found Dead 8vo, Paper 25 

From Exile 4to, Paper 15 

Gwendoline’s Harvest 8 vo, Paper 25 

Halves » 8vo, Paper 30 

High Spirits 4to, Paper 15 

Kit. Illustrated 4to, Paper 20 

Less Black than We’re Painted 8vo, Paper 35 

Murphy’s Master 8vo, Paper 20 

One of the Family 8vo, Paper 25 

The Best of Husbands 8vo, Paper 25 

The Canon’s Ward. Illustrated 4to, Paper 25 

The Talk of the Town 4to, Paper 20 

Thicker than Water 16mo, Cloth, $1 00;. 4to, Paper 20 

Under One Roof 4to, Paper 1 5 

Walter’s Word 8vo, Paper 50 

What He Cost Her 8vo, Paper 40 

Won — Not Wooed 8vo, Paper 30 

READE’S Novels : Household Edition. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, per vol. 1 00 

A Simpleton and W andering Heir 
A Terrible Temptation. 

A Woman-Hater. 

Foul Play. 

Good Stories. 

Griffith Gaunt. 

Hard Cash. 


It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
Love me Little, Love me Long. 
Peg Woffington, Christie John- 
stone, &c. 

Put Yourself in His Place. 

The Cloister and the Hearth. 
White Lies. 


A Perilous Secret 12mo, Cloth, 75 cents ; 4to, Paper 20 

16mo, Paper 40 

A Hero and a Martyr 8vo, Paper 15 

A Simpleton 8vo, Paper 30 

A Terrible Temptation. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 25 

A Woman-Hater. Ill’d 8vo, Paper, 30 cents; 12mo, Paper 20 

Foul Play 8 vo, Paper 30 

Good Stories of Man and Other Animals. Illustrated... 4to, Paper 20 

Griffith Gaunt. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 30 

Hard Cash. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 35 

It is Never Too Late to Mend 8vo, Paper 35 

Jack of all Trades 16mo, Paper 15 


10 


Harper & Brothers ’ Popular Novels. 


PRICE 

READE’S (Charles) Love Me Little, Love Me Long 8vo, Paper $ 

Multum in Parvo. Illustrated 4to, Paper 

Peg Woffington, &c 8vo, Paper 

Put Yourself in His Place. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

The Cloister and the Hearth 8vo, Paper 

The Coming Man 32mo, Paper 

The Jilt 32mo, Paper 

The Picture 16mo, Paper 

The Wandering Heir. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

White Lies 8vo, Paper 

ROBINSON’S (F. W.) A Bridge of Glass 8vo, Paper 

A Fair Maid 4to, Paper 

A Girl’s Romance, and Other Stories 8vo, Paper 

As Long as She Lived 8vo, Paper 

Carry’s Confession 8vo, Paper 

Christie’s Faith 12mo, Cloth 1 

Coward Conscience 4to, Paper 

For Her Sake. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

Her Face was Her Fortune 8vo, Paper 

Lazarus in London 4to, Paper 

Little Kate Kirby. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

Mattie: a Stray 8vo, Paper 

No Man’s Friend ....8vo, Paper 

Othello the Second 3 2 mo, Paper 

Poor Humanity 8vo, Paper 

Poor Zeph! 32mo, Paper 

Romance on Four Wheels 8vo, Paper 

Second-Cousin Sarah. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 

Stern Necessity 8vo, Paper 

The Barmaid at Battle ton 32mo, Paper 

The Black Speck 4to, Paper 

The Hands of Justice 4to, Paper 

The Man She Cared For 4to, Paper 

The Romance of a Back Street 32mo, Paper 

True to Herself 8vo, Paper 

ROE’S (E. P.) Nature’s Serial Story. Illustrated Square 8vo, Cloth 5 

P I) . O Q -( Gilt Edges B 

RUSSELL’S (W. Clark) Auld La#* SfJe Q...0 4to, Paper 

A Sailor’s Sweetheart 4to, Paper 

A Sea Queen 16mo, Cloth, $1 00; 4to, Paper 

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Jack’s Courtship 16mo, Cloth, 1 00; 4to, Paper 

John Holdsworth, Chief Mate 4to, Paper 

Little Loo 4to, Paper 

My Watch Below 4to, Paper 

On the Fo’k’sle Head 4to, Paper 

Round the Galley Fire 4to, Paper 

The “ Lady Maud Schooner Yacht. Illustrated 4to, Paper 

Wreck of the “ Grosvenor ”, 8vo, Paper, 30 cents ; 4to, Paoer 


It surpasses all its predecessors . — N„ Y. Tribune. 



A Dictionary of the English Language, Pronouncing, Etymological, 
and Explanatory, Embracing Scientific and Other Terms, Numer- 
ous Familiar Terms, and a Copious Selection of Old English 
Words. By the Rev. James Stormonth. The Pronunciation 
Carefully Revised by the Rev. P. H. Phelp, M.A. pp. 1248. 
4to, Cloth, $6 00 ; Half Roan, $7 00 ; Sheep, $7 50. 

Also in Harper’s Franklin Square Library, in Twenty- 
three Parts. 4to, Paper, 25 cents each Part. Muslin covers for 
binding supplied by the publishers on receipt of 50 cents. 

As regards thoroughness of etymological research and breadth of modern inclusion, 
Stormonth’s new dictionary surpasses all its predecessors. * * * In fact, Stormonth’s 
Dictionary possesses merits so many and conspicuous that it can hardly fail to estab- 
lish itself as a standard and a favorite. — N. Y. Tribune. 

This may serve in great measure the purposes of an English cyclopaedia. It gives 
lucid and succinct definitions of tho technical terms in science and art, in law and 
medicine. We have the explanation of words and phrases that puzzle most people, 
showing wonderfully comprehensive and out-of-the-way research. We need only add 
that the Dictionary appears in all its departments to have been brought down to meet 
the latest demands of the day, and that it is admirably printed. — Times , London. 

A most valuable addition to the library of the scholar and of the general reader. 
It can have for the present no possible rival. — Boston Post. 

It has the bones and sinews of the grand dictionary of the future. * * * An invalu- 
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A work which is certainly without a rival, all things considered, among tho dic- 
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As compared with our standard dictionaries, it is better in type, richer in its vocab- 
ulary, and happier in arrangement. Its system of grouping is admirable. * * * He 
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make use of it a terror. — Christian Advocate , N. Y. 

A well-planned and carefully executed work, which has decided merits of its own, 
and for which there is a place not filled by any of its rivals. — N. Y. Sun. 

A work of sterling value. It has received from all quarters the highest commenda- 
tion. — Lutheran Observer , Philadelphia. 

A trustworthy, truly scholarly dictionary of our English language. — Christian Intel- 
ligencer, N. Y. 

The issue of Stormonth’s great English dictionary is meeting with a hearty Wel- 
lcome everywhere. — Boston Transcript. 

A critical and accurate dictionary, the embodiment of good scholarship and the 
result of modern researches. Compression and clearness are its external evidences, 
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unrivalled place in bringing forth the result of modern philological criticism.— Boston 
Journal. 

Full, complete, and accurate, including all the latest words, and giving all their 
derivatives and correlatives. The definitions are short, but'plain, the method of mak- 
ing pronunciation very simple, and the arrangement such as to give the best results 
in tho smallest space. — Philadelphia Inquirer. 


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